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CLARA D'ALBE. 


•TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 

. f 

BY A LADY OF BALTIMORE. 


Baltimore: 

PRINTED BY JOSEPH ROBINSON; 

No, 4, North Charles.SttseU 


1807. 











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ERRATA. 


Page , 4, Preface, for will, read, would » 

30, for assume, read resume. 

37, read, he told me, and 
44, for ear, read, fear. 

63, for spirit, read, spirits v 
. 87, for anothercause, read, any other . 

\73, for hearing, read bearing. 

188, for and returning quick, read, tremble ; return- 













































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THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 


Disgust, danger, and apprehension of the world, 
having compelled me to seek enjoyment in an ideal 
existence, I had already traced out a vast plan, which 
would for a long time have occupied my thoughts ; 
when an unforeseen circumstance snatched me from 
mysolitude, and my new acquired friends, to trans- 
port me to the banks of the Seine, in the environs 
of Rouen, and place me in the midst of a delight- 
ful country, and a large circle of society, 

I knew it was not then that I could pursue jny 
labours, and therefore I left all behind me. . . .Idid 
not even take that which I had already done. How- 
ever, the beauty of the dwelling, the powerful charm 
of rural scenery, awakened my imagination, and 
touched my heart; I wanted only a hint to trace 
another plan ; this hint was given by a lady of this 
society, who had herself acted an important part in 
the history lam about to relate. I asked her per- 
mission to write down her recital ; she granted it ; 

A 3 


IV 


I obtained that of giving it to the world also, and 
I hasten to avail myself of it. I hasten, is the 
word, because having written it all from a single 
sketch, and in less than fifteen days, I have neither 
taken the time nor the trouble to retouch it. I know 
that to the public, the time it may have employed 
Is of no concern, and besides, they will do well to 
complain if they find it tiresome ; but since it 
would fatigue me much more to correct it, I thinly 
I am right to leave it as it is. 

/ 

For my own part, I am so conscious of its defi-s 
ciences, that I neither expect my age, nor sex, will 
shelter me from criticism, and my self-love will, 
I acknowledge, be but ill at ease, if I had not a per- 
suasion, that the history I meditate writing, would, 
perhaps, compensate me for the anecdote that here 
escapes me. 


CLAEA D’ALBE, 


LETTER I. 

©LARA D’ALBE TO ELIZA DE EIRE. 

NO, my Eliza, no, you do not doubt the pain 
that I felt in leaving you; you saw it; it was 
such that M. d’Albe proposed that I should re- 
main with you, and I was on the point of con- 
senting ; but then, would not the charm of our 
friendship have been destroyed ? Could we have 
been pleased at being together, in no longer be- 
ing, pleased with ourselves ? Would you have 
ventured to have spoken to me of virtue, without 
fearing to make me blush, and to perform du- 
ties which would have been a tacit reproach to 
her, who had abandoned a husband, and separated a 
father from his children ? Eliza, my duty commanded 
me to leave you, arid I cannot repent it ; if it was a 
sacrifice, the gratitude of my husband has been its 
reward ; and the seven years that I passed in the 


world since my marriage, had not obtained for me 
as much confidence on his part, as the certainty that 
I do not prefer you to him; you know, Eliza, that 
since my union with M. d’Albe, he has been jealous 
only of my friendship for you ; it was essential to re- 
assure him on this point, and in this I have perfectly 
succeeded ; Eliza, be angry with me if you will, but 
in spite of your absence I afri happy ; yes, I am hap- 
py in the entire satisfaction of M. d’Albe At 

length, said he to me this morning, I have obtain- 
ed the most perfect conviction of your attachment ; 
much time, without doubt, I have required ; but 
can this astonish you ? and will not the dispropor- 
tion of our ages dispose you to indulgence for my 
scepticism ? You are beautiful and charming ; I 
have beheld you in the vortex of the world and its 
pleasures, sought after, idolised, with too much 
prudence for any to dare to declare their wishes to 
you ; with too much simplicity to be flattered by 
their adulations ; your mind has not been awaken- 
ed to coquetry, nor your heart to love, and I have 
always discovered in you the desire of gliding thro* 
the world, without attracting observation ; this wa* 


s 


your first trial, with principles such as yours, it was 
not the most difficult. But I restored you to your 
friend, I gave you the hope of living continually 
with her ; already your plans were formed ; your 
children seem to belongequally to you both ; the care 
of their education doubles its charm in employing 
you together ; and it is from the bosom of such en- 
joyment that I snatch you, to lead you to solitude 
and a distant abode. You are here at twenty-two 
years of age, with no companion but two children 
who are yet in their infancy, and a husband of sixty ; 
and yet, I find you always the same, always tender, 
always attentive ; you are the first to remark the 
beauties of this place ; you seek to enjoy what I give 
y'ou, that I may forget that of which I deprive 
you ; but the unequalled, the inestimable merit of 
your complaisance, is in being so natural and un- 
affecied, that I do not know whether the place I 
prefer myself, is not always that which pleases you 
most. This was my second trial ; after this I have 
no more to make ; I was, perhaps, born suspicious ; 
and in your charms, you have all that could en- 

erease this disposition; but happily for us both, 
a. 4 


4 


jour virtues ar& still greater than your charms, and 
iny confidence shall be henceforth as boundless as 
your merits. . . .My friend, replied I, your praises 
at once touch and delight me ; they assure me you 
are happy because happiness sees every thing in its 
brilliant colours; you paint me as perfect, and my 
heart rejoices in the illusion, since you love me as 
such: but, added I, smiling, do not attribute to 
what you call my complaisance, all the honor of 
my gaiety: you have not forgotten that Eliza pro- 
mised to come and join us, since we could not re- 
main with her, and this hope is not the least enliven- 
ing picture that embellishes this dwelling .... And, 
my Eliza, you will not forget this promise, so neces- 
sary to us both ; you will avail yourself of your in- 
dependence, not to suffer those to remain separated, 
whom Heaven had created to be together ; you will 
come and restore to my heart the dearest portion of 
itself; we shall regain those precious moments, 
whose fugitive existence has left such profound tra- 
ces on my memory ; we will resume those endless 
mversations, which mutual friendship render- 
>o momentary ; we will rejoice iu this rare and 


« 


precious sentiment, which extinguishes rivalship, 
and excites emulation ; in short, the happy moment 
in which I shall embrace you, will be that in which 
I shall be permitted to say, it is forever ; and may 
the tutelary genius which presided at our birth, and 
produced us both at the same instant, put the last 
seal to his beneficence in terminating our existence 
together ! ! 

A 5 

' . ■> I 






* 


1 V i 


T': 







LETTER II, 


CLARA TO ELIZA. 

I have been wrong, indeed, my friend, not f» 
have said a word to you about the asylum which 
will very soon be yours, and which indeed, in it- 
self merits description ; but when I take up my pen, 
I can think only of you, and you will perhaps par* 
don an inattention, of which my friendship for you 
is the cause. 

The residence which we occupy, is situated some 
leagues from Tours, in the midst of a happy diver- 
sity of hill and valley, the one covered with wood 
and vines, and the other with golden harvests, and 
smiling villas ; the rrver Cher winds through the 
country, and empties its waters at a distance, in the 
Loire ; the banks of the Cher, covered with groves 
and meadows, are rural and charming ; those of the 
Loire more majestic, shaded with tall poplars, thick 
woods and rich pasturage ; from the summit of a 
picturesque rock, which rises above the castle, these 


7 


rivers are seen rolling their waves, sparkling with 
the reflection of the sun beams, for many a league* 
and uniting at the foot of the castle ; verdant isles, 
raising their green heads from the river's bed; a great 
number of streams widening them in their course ; 
on every side, the eye discovers a vast extent of rich 
soil, covered with fruits, enamelled with flowers, 
and enlivened by the troops which graze in the pas- 
tures. The husbandman tracing his furrows, the 
carriages driving along the great road, the boats 
gliding through the rivers, and the towns, villages 
and hamlets crowned with steeples* all together dis- 
play the most magnificent prospect. 

The castle is vast and convenient, the buildings 
belonging to the manufactures, which M. d'Albe 
has just established, are immense. I have appro- 
priated one wing to my use, in order to esta- 
blish an hospital, in which the sick labourers and 
poor peasants may find an asylum ; I have already 
appointed a surgeon and two nurses ; and, as for 
the superintendance, I reserve that to myself ; be- 
cause it is , perhaps* more necessary than we are 


s 


aware, to impose upon ourselves the obligation of 
being every day useful to our fellow creatures ; this 
keeps us in action, and even to do well, we very often 
require a stimulus to urge us to exertion. 

You know that this immense possession hay 
belonged, time immemorial, to the family of M. 
d'AIbe ; it was here that in his youth, he became 
acquainted with my father, and formed an intimacy 
with him ; it was here, that enchanted with a friend- 
ship, which had rendered them both so happy, they 
vowed to finish their days, and deposite their 
ashes ; it is here, in short. Oh! my Eliza, that sleep 
the remains of the best of fathers ; his sacred urn 
reposes under the shade of the poplars and the cy- 
press ; a large rivulet surrounds his tomb, and 
forms, as it were, a little isle, which no unhallowed 
footstep must approach : how much delight I take 
in conversing of him with M. d’Albe ; how much 
our hearts are in unison on such a subject ! . .The 
last kindness of your father, said my husband, was 
to unite me to you ; judge, then, how I must cherish 
his memory. . . .And I, Eliza, in reflecting on the 


world, and the men whom I have known, ou^Lt 
not I also, to bless my father, for having chosen me 
60 worthy a husband ? 

Adolphus is much more amused here than with 
you ; every thing is new to him ; and he finds the con- 
tinual bustle of the workmen, much gayer than the 
tete-a-tete of two friends : he never leaves his father, 
who indulges him to excess ; but what matter, if 
this extreme complaisance renders him froward and 
self-willed in his youth ; am I not sure that his ex- 
ample will render him benevolent and just, in his 
riper years, 

Laura does not enjoy, like her brother, every 
thing that surrounds her ; she distinguishes only 
her mother, and even this gleam of intelligence they 
would deny her ; M. d’Albe, assures me, that she 
does not know me from her nurse, and I don’t want 
to put her to the proof, for fear of finding that he is 
right. 

M. d’Albe sets ofF to-morrow ; he is going to 


10 


meet a young relative of his, whom he expects from 
Dauphiny ; united to his mother by the ties of blood, 
he promised on her death-bed, to be a guardian 
and a father to her son ; and you know how true my 
husband is to his engagements ; besides, he intends 
placing him at the head of his manufactory, and 
thereby to relieve himself from the continual fa- 
tigue of its superintendance ; but for this reason, I 
do not know whether I should see the arrival of 
Frederic with pleasure ; in the world an addition- 
al guest is oT no importance ; in solitude it is an 
event. 


11 


LETTER III. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

I am alone, it is true, my Eliza, but I am not so- 
iitary ; I find occupation enough with my children, 
and amusement in my walks, to occupy all my time: 
besides, as M. d*Aibe is to meet his cousin in Ly- 
ons, he will be here in less than ten days ; and then 
how can I feel myself alone, when every day I see 
the earth embellished with some new charm ? Al- 
ready the first born of nature advances, already I 
feel its softening influence ; my blood rushes to 
my heart, which heats more violently at the approach 
of spring. At this new creation every thing is ani-r 
mated and awakened; desire is produced, over- 
runs the. universe, and excites every being by its 
magic touch... .all are struck at his approach ; 
he opens the way to pleasure, and they has- 
ten into the enchanting path. Man alone, differing 
in this point from all breathing Nature, yields 
only to his influence when guided by love. Love 
is the passion that constitutes bis bliss ; it is lov$ 


14 


\ 


good that happens within ten leagues around him ; 
and the consciousness of this renovates his youth. 
Ah, my friend! had the world as much attraction 
for me as it inspires me with aversion, I should yet 
remain here ; for a wife who loves her husband, 
counts the days on which she has pleasure as ordi- 
nary days, but those on which she gives it to her 
husband, as days of rejoicing. 



■ 


LETTER IV. 


<3LARA TO ELIZA. 

I have passed several days without Writing to you, 
my beloved friend, and at the moment I was about 
to take up my pen, M. d’Albe arrived with his re- 
lation. He met him a great way on this side of Ly* 
©ns ; it was for this reason they returned so much 
sooner than I expected. I have yet only embraced 
iny husband, and caught a glimpse of Fredeiick. 
His air is noble, and his countenance open ; he is 
timid, but not embarrassed. I received him with 
as much affability as possible, as much to encourage 
him, as to please my husband. But M. d’Albe 
calls me, and I hasten to join him, that he may not 
reproach me, that even at the instant of his arrival, 
my first thought is of you. , , * ♦ Adieu, dear friend* 


1(5 

LETTER V, 

CLAKA TO ELIZA, 

How much 1 love my husband, Eliza! How 
much am I touched with the pleasure he takes in 
doing good : all his ambition is to undertake laud- 
able actions, as all his happiness is to succeed in 
t hem. lie loves Frederick tenderly, because he sees 
in him, an object to render happy. This young man 
it is true, is very interesting. He has always inhabited 
the Cevennes, and his abode in the mountains has 
given as much agility and flexibility to his body, 
as originality to bis mind and candour to his dispo- 
sition. He is perfectly ignorant cf all etiquette ; 
ir we are at a door and he is in a hurry, he goes in 
ilrst ; at table, if he is hungry, he takes what he 
wants, without Avaiting to be invited. lie freely en- 
quires every thing he wishes to know, and his ques- 
tions would beofteneven indiscreet, if it were net 
< video t that be asks them, because he does not know 
that every thing may not be spoken of. For my 
pari, I love this novel character, that shews itself 


17 


without restraint or disguise ; this blunt frank- 
ness, which often makes him tail in politeness,, bat 
never in complaisance, because the comfort of others 
is necessary to his own. In viewing in him so per- 
fect a desire to oblige all around him, and so lively 
a gratitude towards my husband, I smile at his sim- 
pliclty, and I am affected at the goodness of his 
heart. I never before saw a countenance so ex- 
pressive ; his slightest sensations are painted in it 
as in a mirror. I am sure he is vet ignorant that 
men know how to deceive. Poor young man f . If 
he were cast thus into the world, at the age of nine- 
teen, without a guide, without a friend ; with his 
disposition to believe every thing, and utter all his 
thoughts, what would become of him ? My hus- 
band without doubt, will serve him as a support ; 
but do you know shatM. d’ A Ibe almost exacts that 
I should be his guide also ? I am too hasty, 
said he to me this morning, and the goodness of 
myheart does not always compensate for tie rough- 
ness of my manner. Frederick will require advice. 
A woman knows better how to give it ; and besides, 
your age authorises you to direct him three 


18 


ypiirs 'between you are a great deal ; and furtheryoti 
are mistress of a family, and this title inspires re- 
spect. I promised my husband to do as he wished ; 
so, Eliza, here am I, set up as a grave preceptress^ 
to a young man of nineteen ! Are you not quite 
astonished at my new dignity? But to return to* 
things a Iitte more at my level, I will tell you that 
my little gypsey begun yesterday to walk. She 
stood alone for some minutes ; 1 was proud of her 
movements, and felt as if I had created them. As 
for Adolphus, he is always with the workmen ; he 
examines the implements, is satisfied only when he 
understands them, sometimes imitates, but still of- 
tener breaks them, jumps on his fathers neck when 
he begins to scold him, and makes himself the de- 
light of all, in putting every one in a passion. He 
pleases Frederick very much, but my daughter is not 
so fortunate. I asked him to day if she was not 
charming, and if he did not take pleasure in kiss- 
ing her soft and delicate skin : no, replied he, with 
a great deal of simplicity, she is very ugly, and 
smells of sour milk . 


19 


Adieu, my Eliza, I rely upon your friendship, 
for hastening those happy days we are to pass toge- 
ther. I know that the condition of a widow, who 
has the interest of her children to consult, demands 
a great many sacrifices ; but if the pleasure of our 
reunion is an incentive to your industry, it must 
necessarily accelerate your affairs. My angel, said 
M. d’Albe to me to day, if the establishment of 
the manufactory, and the instruction of Frederick, 
did not imperiously demand my stay here, I should 
quit wife and children for three months, to go and 
dispatch Eliza’s affairs, that I might bring her back 
to you three months sooner. Excellent man ! he 
finds happiness only in that which he procures to o- 
thers, and I feel that his example renders me every 
day better. 


V 


30 


LETTER VI, 

ELIZA TO CLARA, 

This morning as we were at breakfast, Frederick 
Game to us quite out of breath. He had been play- 
ing with my son ; but suddenly assuming a grave 
aspect, he entreated my husband to give him the 
first lessons to-day, in the employment he designs 
for him in the manufactory. This quick transition 
from childishness to reason, appeared so droll to me, 
that it made me laugh immoderately. Frederick 
looked at me with surprise... my Cousin, said he, if 
I am wrong reprove me, but it is not right to make 
a jest of me. Frederick is right, said my husband ; 
you are too good to be a mocker, Clara ; but your 
sudden fitsof laughter, contrasted with your gene- 
ral character, often make you appear so this is 

your only defect ; but it is a serious one, for it 
wounds the feelings of others as much as if they re- 
ally wej*e the objects of your ridicule This re- 

proach touched me j I tenderly embraced my hus- 
band, assuring him that he should not twice have 
bS 


Cl 


occasion to speak to me of a fault, which gave hi ii> 
pain ; he pressed me to his bosom ; I saw tears in 
Frederick’s eyes ; and this touched me. I held out 
my hand to him, at the same time, begging him to 
forgive me ; he seized it with ardour, he kissed it 

and I felt his tears indeed, Eliza, this was 

not a movement of politeness, M. d’Albe smil- 

ed.... Poor child, said he to me. how can we resist 
loving him, he is so ingenuous and so unaffected !.. 
Come, my Clara, to seal your peace, go and 
take a walk with him towards those forests, which 
rise above the Loire. He will there find some of 
his native scenes. Besides, he ought to be acquain- 
ted with the place he is to inhabit. As for to-day, 

I have letters to write to-morrow, young man, 

we will go to work. 

I set off with my children. Frederick carried my 
daughter, aUho , she does smell of sour milk. When 
we reached the forest, we began to converse, . . • 
To converse is not the word, for he talked alone. . 
....the objects he saw, in recalling to him bin 
country, inspired him with enthusiasm. I was 
s4 


surprised that sublime ideas should be so familiar to 
him, and at the eloquence with which he expressed 
them ; it seemed as if he were elevated with them 
I had never yet seen so much animation in his eye. 
Presently recurring to other subjects, I discovered 
that he possesses solid information, and a singular 
aptitude to the sciences. I fear that the occupation, 
which is destined for him, is neither suitable or 
agreeable to him: an employment merely mechani- 
cal, a constant superintendance and dry calculations, 
must necessarily become insupportable to him, or 
extinguish the fire of his imagination, which would 
really be a pity. I think, Eliza, I shall become ac- 
customed to the society of Frederick. His is a no- 
vel character, which has not yet been blunted by a 
commerce with the world. He has all the piquant 
originality of nature we find in him those bold 
and vigorous touches, with which man must have 
been formed, when he first came out of the hands 
of the Creator ; we discover in him those great and 
noble passions, which without doubt, may lead 
him astray, but which alone, elevate to glory and 


virtue. Far from him are those negative characters- 
without life and without colouring, who know how 
to act, and to think only as they are led by others, 
whose delicate eyes are wounded by a contrast, and 
who in the little sphere in which they move, are 
not even capable of committing a great fault, 

9 5 


24 


LETTER VII. 

ELIZA TO CLARA. 

I should have been much surprised, if the well 
merited praise with which I spoke of Frederick 
had not drawn on me the reproach of an enthusiast 
on the part of my judicious friend ; for I cannot 
speak of what I see, nor express what I feel, but 
her censure immediately puts the veto on my judg- 
ment. It is possible, my Eliza, that I may yet 
have seen only the favourable side of Frederick’s 
character ; and because I have not been able to 
discover his defects, I do not pretend to say he is 
faultless ; but I will convince you by the following 
recital, that there is at least no personal interest in 
my manner of judging. 

Yesterday we were walking at some distance 
from the house, suddenly Adolphus giddily asked 
him. . . .My cousin, which do you love best, papa 
or mama ? .... I assure you, it was without a mo- 
ments hesitation, that he gave the preference to my 


25 


husband . Adolphus wanted to know why ? . .Your 
mama is a great deal more charming, he replied, 
but I believe your papa is better.... and in my eyes, 
a single movement of goodness is superior to a thou- 
sand graces, ,, .Hah ! cousin, you talk just like 
mama ; she kisses me only once, when I have 
learned my lesson well ; but when I do any thing 
to oblige any body, she hugs me to her heart, be- 
cause she says that is like papa. . . . Frederick look- 
ed at me, with an expression impossible to describe ; 
then laying his hand upon his heart. ..it is singu- 
lar, said he to himself, but I felt that here. . . .and 
without adding a word, or making any apology, he 
left me and returned to the house. At dinner I 
joked him upon his want of civility, and begged 
M. d'Albe to scold him, for having so ungallantly 
left me. Were you afraid ? interrupted Frederick : 
if you were, you should have told me so, and I 
would have staid with you. ...but I thought you 
were in the habit of walking alone. . . .That is true, 
rep'ied I, but then your going away, seemed to ex- 
press, that you were tired of my company..,. and 


this ydn should not have let me perceive You 

would be wrong to think so, said Frederick I felt 
on the contrary, an agreeable sensation in listening 
to you, which, at the same time, gave me pain ; it 
was for this I left you. ...M. d’Albe smiled. ...You 
love my wife then very much Frederick ? said he ; 
very much ? no. ...Would you leave her without 
regret She pleases me, but I believe that in 

some days, I should forget her And I, my friend. 

You, cried he, rising quickly and rushing into his 
arms.. ..I should never console myself, were I to 
leave you. You see, Eliza, that 1 am a very secon* 
dary object In the affections of Frederick, and this 
is as it should be. I could not pardon bis loving 
another as well as his benefactor. But, my friend, 
I am afraid of wearying you, in talking to you 
thus continually of this young man, and yet, heap- 
pears to me, a subject as new as interesting. I see 
in him a being fresh from the hands of nature, and 
consider him with that species of curiosity which a 
character so novel must excite. His conversation 
does not shine from borrowed wit.... it is rich in its 
•wn resources ; it has above all, the rare merit of 


27 


proceeding from his lips, such as his heart con- 
ceives it. The breast of Frederick, my Eliza, is 
the abode of truth. 

This afternoon we were alone.... I held my little 
girl on my knees, and endeavoured to make her 
repeat my name. The name of mother, recalled 
what had passed the day before, and I asked Fre- 
derick why he gave that of father to M. d’Albe... 
Because, replied he, I have lost mine, and his good- 
ness supplies his place.... But your mother is dead 
also ; will you not suffer me to become your 
mother? You! oh, no.... Why not ? I remember 
my mother, and what I felt for her, in nothing re- 
sembles that with which you inspire me. Because 
you loved her much more ? I loved her quite dif- 
ferently ; I was perfectly at my ease with her, and 
instead of that, your looks sometimes embarrass 
me; I embraced her too continually.. ..Would you 
not then embrace me ? No ; you are a great deal 
too handsome... Is that a reason? It is at least a dif- 
ference. I embraced my mother without thinking 
of her beauty ; but in you, I should see it alone. 


Perhaps Eliza you will blame me for trifling thus, 
with Frederick ; but in truth I cannot help it. His 
Conversation diverts and inspires me with unusual 
gaiety. Besides, our playfulness amuses M. d’Albe, 
and he very often excites it. However, this must 
net lead you to suppose, that I have set aside my 
function of moralist: I often give advice to him, 
to which he listens with docility, and by which 
he improves ; and I feel that exclusive of the plea* 
sure which it gives M. d’Albe to see me interest 
myself in his young friend, I shall find a real 
source of delight myself, in instructing him with- 
out destroying his simplicity, and in guiding him 
through the world, and at the same time preserv- 
ing the native candour of his character. 

No, my Eliza, I shall not go to Paris this win- 
ter. Were you there, I perhaps might hesitate ; 
and in so doing I should be wrong ; for ray husband 
who is devoted to his establishment, could not leave 
it, without doing it a material injury. Frederick 
will be a great source of amusement to us during 
the long winter evenings ; he has a very fine voice 


and only wants method to sing delightfully. What 
a pity, that you capnot be with us. I have given 
orders forseveral Italian airs to be sent to me ; if you 
were here, there is hardly a piece we could no; 
execute, and thus transport our good friend tQ E» 
lysium 


so 


LETTER VIIL 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

It amuses you then, my friend, that I should 
talk to you of Frederick, and by a species of con- 
tradiction, I have nothing to say to you of him to- 
day ; for several days, I have seen him only at meal 
times ; and even then he is entirely engaged 
In talking with M. d’Albe, either of what has been 
done or is designed for the manufactory. I am 
even more habitually alone, than before his arrival, 
because, as M. d’Albe amuses himself very much 
with him, he feels still less want of my so- 
ciety. During the first three or four days, this ren- 
dered me melancholy ; to be with them, I inter- 
rupted the general course of my occupations, and 
hardly knew how to assume them; I continually 
felt as if I expected some one, and the habit of hav- 
ing society, made me even lose my relish for my 
solitary walks. We are in truth, my friend, real 
machines ; it is enough for us to accustom ourselves 
k> a thing, and it becomes immediately necessary ; 
and because we had it yesterday, we again sttk for 


SI 


it to-day. I believe there is a disposition to 
indolence generally implanted in our nature, which 
is the strongest of our propensities ; and if there are 
not many men virtuous, it proceeds less from indif- 
ference towards virtue, than because virtue prompts 
to action, and we always incline to repose. But 
how well does it recompence those who have the 
courage to exert it ! If the first attempts towards it 
are difficult, how well does it compensate the sacri- 
fices it exacts ! The more it is exercised, the more 
easy it becomes ; it is like two friends who love each 
other more, in proportion as they learn to appreciate 
their mutual merit *, there is also an art of rendering 
it easy, and it is notin Paris this art is to be attained. 
In the magnificent apartments of our splendid ho- 
tels, how difficult is it to conceive the misery that 
groans in the wretched hovels of the poor ! If 
benevolence raises us from our sophas ! how many 
obstacles return us to them again ! In the midst of 
the crowd of miserable beings who swarm in great 
cities, how difficult is it to distinguish the knave 
from the unfortunate ? we begin by trusting to the 
countenance ; but very soon aware of the fallibili- 


&y of this criterion, because tears irave once decei- 
ved us, vve conclude that we must no longer put 
faith in any. How many steps must be taken, how 
many inquiries made before we are assured that it is 
the truly wretched whom we are relieving! In seeing 
the endless number of the miserable, how wound- 
ing is it to the soul, to be able to succour only so 
small a proportion ? And notwithstanding all the 
good we may have done; the idea of that which was 
beyond our power, disturbs our tranquility. But 
in the country, where those who surround us are 
fewer and more approached to us, we neither risk 
being deceived , nor are obliged to restrain our benevo- 
lence; if its object is less extensive, we have at least 
the hopes of attaining it. Ah ! if everyone would 
thus interest themselves in embellishing their little 
horizon, misery would very soon disappear from the 
earth ; inequality of fortune would cease, without 
shock or effort, and charity would be the celestial 
tie which would unite men to one another* 


LETTER IX 


CLARA TO ELIZA. 

You know M. d’Albe*s taste for political news. 
Frederick participates in it. A subject which em- 
braces the welfare of whole nations, appears to him 
the most interesting of any : every evening as soon 
as the journals and newspapers arrive, M. d’Albe 
hastens to call his young friend, to read and discuss 
them with him. As this employment almost al- 
ways occupies an hour, I generally avail myself 
of the opportunity of retiring to my chamber, ei- 
ther to write to you, or amuse myself with my chil- 
dren. During the first twoor three days, Frederick 
asked me where I went, and wished me to stay and 
be present at the reading : at length finding that it 
was always the signal of my retreat, he reproached me 
for my indifference to public news, and insisted I 
was wrong. I told him no ; that that only could 
be called wrong, from which evil resulted to others ; 
that therefore I could not reproach xnyself for the 


34 


little interest I felt in political events ; that a fee- 
ble atom like me, is lost in the immense crowd of 
beings who inhabit this wide country, and conse- 
quently what could result from the greater or less 
degree of interest I might feel in its political con- 
cerns ? Frederick, the service which a female can 
render to her country is not in occupying herself 
with what passes in its government, in offering her 
advice, but in exerting all the virtues in her power. 
Clara is right replied IVJ. D’Albe ; a woman in de- 
voting herself to the education of her children, and 
her domestic cares, in setting the example of cor- 
rect morals and industry around her, accomplishes 
the task imposed on her by her country ; if every 
one would thus content themselves in doing private 
good, from this multitude of good works, the most 
admirable consequences would ensue. It is to men 
that great and vast conceptions belong; it is theirs 
to create governments and laws, and the part of wo- 
men to facilitate their execution, in confining them- 
selves to fulfilling those cares and duties that befit 
them. Their task is easy ; because whatever may 




be tneorderof things, provided it is founded upon 
Virtue, they are sure of concurring in its duration 
if they do not leave the circle which nature has tra- 
ced around them. 

Eliza, lam amply rewarded for having done my 
duty in coming here with M. d’ Albe. I am happi- 
er than 1 have ever yet been. I have no longer those 
moments of sadness and disgust which sometimes 
rendered you so uneasy. Certainly it was the great 
world that inspired me with that perpetual listlesness, 
and it is the sight of nature which has renovated me. 
My friend, nothing is so congenial to my feelings, 
as to pass my life in the country, in the midst of a 
numerous family. Besides the air of resemblance 
t hat every thing wears to the antient and patriar- 
chal manners, which certainly has its influence, it is 
t here alone we can regain that soft and universal be- 
nevolence, which you have sometimes accused me of 
being without, but which, moving in large circles 
of society necessarily blunts. When we have 
c 


3 $ 


enly useful 'connexions with our fellow 'creatures* 
such as the good we may do them, or the services we 
can render them, a strange face always announces 
a new pleasure, and the heart expands to bid it wel- 
come ; but in tbe world we are perpetually surround- 
ed with a crowd of idlers, who fatigue us with their 
uselessness, and very far from teaching us to employ 
our time to a good purpose, they oblige us to make 
an ill use of it, and we must, if we do not resemble 
them, either treat them with coldness or dissimula- 
tion ; benevolence is thus extinguished in the 
great world, like hospitality in great cities* 


i 


LETTER X. 


CLAHA TO ELIZA. 

This morning I was called at 5 o’clock, to go and 
see the good old Frances, who was seized with an 
attack of apoplexy. I ordered the surgeon of the 
house to be immediately sent for, and we went toge- 
ther to the relief of the poor creature. By degrees 
the symptoms became less alarming, and her first 
movement on seeing me near her bed, was to thank 
heaven for having restored a life, in which her good 
mistress took an interest. We discovered that one 
probable cause of the accident was her having ne- 
glected a wound in her leg ; and as the surgeon 
hurt her in touching it, I insisted on cleaning it 
myself. Whilst I was so employed, I heard an ex- 
clamation, and raising my head perceived Frederick 
, M . Frederick in an ectasy. He had just returned 
from a walk, and seeing people round the cottage, 
came in. He had been there for a moment, he told 
he was contemplating not his cousin, .notawoman. 


lovely as she was charming, but an angel ! — I blush- 
ed, both from what he said, and from the expression 
of his countenance, and , perhaps too, a little from the 
disorder of my dress ; for in my haste to go to Fran- 
ces, I had only taken time to put on a petticoat, 
and throw a shawl over my shoulders. I begged 
Frederick to retire ; he obeyed me, and I did not 
see him again the whole morning. An hour be- 
fore dinner, as I expected company, I came down 
stairs very much dressed, because I know it grati- 
fies M. d’Albe ; he was particularly pleased with 
my appearance, and addressing himself to Frede- 
rick is not that gown very becoming to Cla- 

ra, my friend... does she not look charming ? . . . . 
She is only pretty now, replied he, this morning 
she was celestial. M. d’Albe asked an explanation 
of these words..., Frederick gave it to him, with all 
the fire of enthusiasm. My young friend, said my 
husband, when you know my Clara better, you will 
speak with less astonishment of what she has done 
to-day; are we surprised at what we continually 
see ? Frederick, behold this woman, adorned 


39 


with all the charms of beauty, in the flower of 
youth, she has retired to the country with a 
husband who might be her grandfather, occupied 
only with her children, aiming only at making them 
happy by her gentleness and her tenderness, and 
diffusing her active benevolence throughout a whole 
village ; such is my Clara ; let her be your 
friend, my son ; talk to her without reserve ; learn 
from her soul that which will render your own 
perfect ; she does not love virtue more than Ido, 
but she knows how to render it more captivating. 
During this conversation, Frederick had fallen into 
a profound reverie. My husband was called out by 
a workman, and I remained alone with Frederick. 
I approached him... What are you thinking of said 
I? He started, and taking my two hands within 
his, whilst he fixed his eyes upon my face, 
in the first bright morning of youth, said he, as 
soon as the idea of happiness palpitated in my bo- 
som, I created in my mind the image of a woman, 
such as was necessary to my heart. This enchanting 
c 4 


chimera, accompanied me continually ; but I found 
it no where realized ; it is now I recognise it in 
the picture which your husband has drawn: one 
only trait is wanting : her whose idea I have pictur- 
ed to myself, could be happy only with me... what do 
you say Frederick, exclaimed I... I simply relate my 
error to you, replied he, with the utmost tranquilli- 
ty ; I had until now supposed, that only one be- 
ing like you could exist ; without doubt I was 
mistaken, fori now feel an ardent desire, of finding 
another just like you. You see Eliza, that the end 
of his conversation banished those ideas, to which 
the commencement had given birth. May I, O 
my friend be so fortunate as to aid him in the pur- 
suit of her he seeks, her he desires ! she will be hap- 
py, most happy, for Frederick will know how to 
love ! 

I must then, dear friend, be resigned, to six more 
long months of absence ! six months, far from you ! 
how much time lost to happiness! happiness, 
*hat being so fugitive that many believe it Ho bft 


41 


a chimera, exists only in the reunion of all the ten- 
der sentiments to which the heart is accessible, and 
in the presence of those who excite them ; a void 
prevents it from existing ; the absence of a friend 
destroys it, and indeed, my Eliza, I am not happy, 
for you are far from me, and never was my heart 
more sensible of the want of loving, and of enjoy- 
ing our reciprocal tenderness. I know that if 
friendship calls, duty detains you ; and Irespect you 
too much to expect to see you : but how ardently do 
my wishes aspire to that moment, which in blending 
them together will restore you to our arms ; it would 
be so delightful to me to weep upon your bosom ; it 
would relieve my heart of a weight which oppresses 
it, but which I cannot define! Adieu, 
c 5 


LETTER XL 


® LARA TO ELIZA » 

You ask me whether I would have been very 
glad, that my husband should have heard my last 
conversation with Frederick? Assuredly, Eliza^ 
there was nothing in it that could give him pain ; 
this is so true, that I related it to him from one end 
to the other. Perhaps I did not precisely render 
Frederick’s accent; but who could do it? M v 
d’Albe heard what I recited with more indifference 
than myself ; he saw in it only the proof of a warm 
imagination, and this added he, is peculiar to the 
season of youth. My friend, said I to him, I be* 
lieve that Frederick unites withhis ardent imagina- 
lion, a heart infinitely tender. The contemplation 
of Nature, the solitude of this habitation, must 
nurture these dispositions, and hence it would be 
perhaps necessary to fix his affections. Since you 
interest yourself in his happiness, do you not think 
I should do right to invite some young people occa~ 


45 


lionally to spend some time with me? It is by 
this means only, he can become acquainted with 
them, and chuse her who shall be most congenial to 
him. Excellent Clara, resumed myhusband, ever 
anxious only for the happiness of others even at your 
own expence, for I am sure that from your taste and 
the age of your children, the society of young per- 
sons can have but few attractions for you : but my 
angelic friend, I know you too well to deprive you 
of the pleasure of being useful to my ward ; I think 
too, your observations with regard to him just, and 
your plan judicious. Let us see ; whom will 
you invite? I mentioned Adele de Rainey ; she is 
sixteen, beautiful and highly accomplished. I will 

invite her for a month I think that this plan 

as well as my confidence in M. d’Albe, sufficiently 
replies to the whimsical fears, you discover in your 
last letter. Do not ask me again, if it is prudent 
at my age, to bury myself in the country with this 
interesting , this charming young man : to suspect it 
is an outrage to your friend ; it would be to degrade 
her to exact precautions of her against such a dan« 


44 


ger. Where crime exists, Eliza, there can be no 
fear for Clara, and there are alarms which friend- 
ship should blush to have conceived. Eliza, Fre- 
derick is the adopted child of my husband, I am 
the wife of his benefactor : these are things which 
virtue engraves in letters of fire, on elevated souls, 
and that are never forgotten. Adieu. 


LETTER XII. 


CLARA TO ELIZA. 

It is possible, my Eliza, I may have laid too 
much stress upon the suspicions you suffered me to 
perceive ; but they shocked me, and I am not much 
better pleased with the explanation you give of them. 
You trembled only for my peace, and not for my 
conduct, say you ? Ha ! my Eliza, you are wrong [ 
We can be virtuous only with a pure heart, and eve-> 
ry thing may be expected of her who is capable of a. 
criminal passion ; but let us leave this theme, I blush 
for having dwelt so long on such a subject ; and to 
proveto you that I do not fear your observations, I 
am going to talk to you of Frederick, and to relate 
you a circumstance, which with regard to him, 
would tend to strengthen your opinion, if you es- 
teemed him so little, as to persist in it. 


After dinner, I followed my husband into the 
manufactory, because he wished to shew me the mo- 


4(5 


del of a piece of mechanism he had invented, and 
which is to be executed on a large scale. I had not 
yet seen all the particulars of it, when he was call- 
ed away by a workman. While he was speaking, 
a poor old man passed close to me with a tool in his 
hand and accidentally broke apart of the model..., 
Frederick who foresaw my husband’s anger, darted 
forward like lightning, snatched the tool out of the 
old man’s hand, and thus appeared to have himself 
done the injury. M. d’ A lbe turned round at the noise, 
and seeing his model broken, flew in a rage and ven- 
ted the heat of his passion on Frederick. The youth, 
too ingenuous to justify a fault he had not commit- 
ted, and too good to accuse another, remained si- 
lent, and suffered only from the vexation of his be- 
nefactor. Touched even to tears, I approached my 
husband : my friend, said I to him, how much have 
you distressed our poor Frederick ! We may pur- 
chase a model, but never a moment of pain given to 
those we love. In saying these words, I saw Fre- 
derick’s eyes fixed on me with such an expression of 
tenderness, that I could not go on. The old man 


/ 


47 

tame at this moment, and throwing himself atthfc 
feet of M. d’Albe....my good master, said he* 
be angry with me ; the dear Mr. Frederick is not 
to blame ; it was to save me from your anger, that 
he threw himself before me when I had broken your 
machine. These words appeased M. d’Albe ; he 
raised the old man kindly, and taking Frederick’s 
arm and mine, he led us into the garden. After a 
moments silence, he pressed Frederick’s hand and 
said to him, my young friend, to offer you apolo- 
gies for my violence, would only wound you, I 
therefore shall not speak of it ; but know at least* 
added he, pointing to me, that it is to the gentle- 
ness of this angel I owe* having now but short and 
rare attacks of passion. When I married Clara, I 
was subject to such terrible excesses of rage, as es- 
tranged both my friends and domestics ; she,withou t 
either braving or fearing, always knew how to tem- 
per them. When my passion was at its height, she 
knew how to calm me with a word, to melt me 
with a single look, and to make me blush for my 
fault, without ever uttering a reproach. By degrees 


A S 


the Influence of her gentleness extended to me, and 
it now seldom happens that I give her cause not 
to love me. Is it not so my Clara ? I threw my- 
self into the arms of this excellent man ; I bathed his 
face with my tears; he continued* addressing him- 
self still to Frederick : I believe I am what may be 
called a benevolent blusterer ; these characters seem 
better than others, because their sudden tran- 
sition from harshness to good-nature, heightens the 
effect of the latter ; but Because it is less striking 
when equal and permanent, should it therefore be 
less esteemed ? The world however is so unjust, 
and it is for this reason that my heart has sometimes 
been thought better than Clara*s. I believe I have 
participated in this injustice, replied Frederick; but 
l am completely cured of it, and your wife appears 
to me what is most perfect in the universe.... .My 
son ! cried M. d’Albe, may I one day see you uni- 
ted to such another, and pass away my days amidst 
objects that render them so precious ! You must ne- 
ver leave us Frederick. Your society has become 
itodispensible to my comfort. I swear it, O, my fa< 


49 


iher, replied the } r oung man vehemently, and put* 
ing one knee to the earth, I swear it in the face of 
that Heaven, which my mouth never yet pro* 
phaned with an untruth, and in the name of this 
creature, yet still more celestial.... I leave you ! Ah 
God ! beyond this dwelling, I feel as if all were 

death or void what a brain, cried my husband ! 

Ah, my Eliza, what a heart ! 

In the evening, alone with Frederick, I know not 
how, the conversation turned upon the scene that 
passed in the manufactory. I suffered for your pain, 

said I I saw it replied he, and from that moment 

it vanished. How?. ...Yes, the idea that you 
suffered for me, had something sweeter in it than 
pleasure itself; and, when you pronounced my 
name with such a touching accent poor Fre- 

derick , said you. Clara, those two little words are 
written on my heart, and I would give all the en- 
joyments of my whole life, to hear you repeat them 
once more; it was my father's pain only, that 
spoiled that delicious moment. 


30 


Eliza, I confess I was affected, but what willyou 
Conclude from thence ; who knows better than you, 
how far friendship is removed from being a cold 
or indifferent sentiment ? Has it not also its 
emotions, its transports? but it preserves its cha- 
racteristic traits, and when mistaken for a more 
impassioned sensation, it is not the fault of him who 
feels, but of him whojudges it. Frederick is alive 
to friendship, for the first time in his life, and must 
necessarily therefore, express it with vivacity. Do 
you not observe that my image is always united to 
that of my husband in his heart ? When I see him 
so tender, so affectionate towards an old man of six- 
ty ; when I recollect the emotions you and I have 
so often experienced, can I be surprised at his lively 
friendship for me ? No, my Eliza ! Say, if you 
will, that he ought to feel nothing for me, but 
aot that what he does feel is what it should not be. 

My little Laura begins to run alone ; nothing is 
more charming than the attention Adolphus pays 
her ; he leads her, supports her, and carefully re- 


51 


moves every thing out of her way, that can hurt her, 
losing in this interesting occupation, the giddiness 
natural to his age. Adieu, 


D 1 


52 


LETTER XIII. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Why, my Eliza, do you embitter the attachment 
that unites me to Frederick, with your broken words 
and interrupted phrases? Why are you not present 
at our conversations ? You \yould then see that our 
mutual tenderness for M. d’Albc is the tie which 
unites us most closely, and that the care of his hap- 
piness is the cherished subject, which attracts us to 
each other. I passed the whole morning with Fre- 
derick, and during this long tete-a-tete, my hus- 
band was almost the sole object of our discourse 

M. d’Albe’s birth-day will be in three days ; I have 
had a little theatre prepared in the pavilion on the 
banks of the river, and I intend having a concert 
of wind instruments in the poplar wood, where re- 
poses the tomb of my father. I had my harp carri- 
ed there this morning and was practising the piece I 
had composed in honour of my husband, when 
Frederick joined me. He had divined my purpose, 
■nid brought ms a duo, the words and music of 


which he had himself written. After having sung 
his piece and found it charming, I shewed him 
mine ; he was pleased with it, and. if M. d’Albe 
is pleased also, never did author receive a sweeter 
and more flattering recompence. It grew warm ; I 
wished to return to the housej but Frederick detain- 
ed me. Seated beside me, he looked at me steadi- 
ly, too steadily this is his only fault, for his look 
has an expression difficult, I... I had almost said 
dangerous to support. After a moments silefice he 
began thus : — You will hardly believe that the 
same subject which has just touched me even to 
tears, in short, that your union with M. d*Albe, 
had before I knew you, inspired me with a strong 
prejudice against you. Accustomed to consider 
love as the most beautiful attribute of youth, it ap- 
peared to me that none but a cold and interested 
soul, could resolve to form a tie, where the dispro- 
portion of age, must necessarily exclude this senti- 
ment. It was not without repugnance I came here, 
because I figured to myself that I should find in 
you, an ambitious and deceitful woman, and as I 


54 


had heard much of your beauty, I tenderly pitied 
M. d , A)be, whom I supposed the dupe of your 
charms* During our journey, he never ceased talk- 
ing to me of his felicity and your virtues ; I saw so 
clearly that he was happy, I was obliged to do you 
justice, but in spite of conviction, my heart reject- 
ed a woman, who had vowed to live without love ; 
and nothing could remove the idea from my mind, 
that you were reasonable from insensibility, and 
generous from ostentation. I arrive, I behold you, 
and all my prejudices vanish ; never was a counte- 
nance so touching, never a human voice so harmo- 
nious. Your eyes, your accent, your air, every 
thing about you breathes tenderness, and yet you 
are happy, M. d*x\lbe is the constant object of 
your cares, your soul seems to have created a new 
sentiment for him ; it is not love, that would be 
rediculous ; it is not friendship, for it has neither 
its respect, nor deference ; you have sought amidst 
all existing sentiments, what each could offer best 
calculated to promote the happiness of your hus- 
band, and you have formed out of them a whole. 


55 


fohich it belonged but to you to know and practice, 
O amiable Clara ! I am ignorant of the circum- 
stances which have thrown you in the path you are 
in, butthere is but you in existence who could thus 
embellish it. . . .He was silent as if waiting for mv 
answer ; I turned round and shewing him my 
father’s urn : beneath this sacred tomb said I, re- 
pose the ashes of the best of fathers. I was yet 
the cradle when he lost my mother ; then con- 
secrating all his cares to my education, he became 
at once the gentlest and most amiable preceptor, 
2nd the tenderest friend, and inspired my heart 
with sentiments so lively towards him, that I join- 
ed for him, to all the filial tenderness which a fath- 
er must excite, all the veneration we feel towards a 
divinity. He was taken from me, as I entered my 
fourteenth year ; feeling his end approaching, 
dreading to leave me without support, and esteem- 
ing in the whole world only M. d’Albe, he conjur- 
ed me to unite myself to him before his death. I 
beleived the sacrifice might preserve him at least % 
little while ; I made it, and have never yet repent-* 


56 


ed. O ! my father, thou who readest the heart of 
thy child ! thou knowest the only wish it forms. 
May the worthy man to whom thou hast united her 
never feel a pang of which she will have been the 
cause, and then her days, will have glided away in 
happiness. ....*And I too, exclaimed Frederick, 
in a transport, and I too, my ardent vows are 
heard ! every day I formed wishes for the happiness 
of my father, but, what can be required for him 
who possesses Clara ? Heaven by such a present 
exhausted its munificence, it has nothing left to 
bestow. *.,A moment of silence succeeded ; I felt 
a little embarrassed, my fingers wandering mecha-* 
riically over the harp, struck some wild notes. . . ; 
Frederick took my hand, and kissing it respectfully, 
is it true, is it indeed possible, said he, that you 
consent to be my friend ? my father wishes, he de- 
sires it, of all the benefits he has lavished on me, 
it is that which is most dear ; will you for the first 
time be less generous than him ? Eliza, dear Eliza, 
how could I have refused him a sentiment with 
which my heart is penetrated, and which he so 


highly merits ? Oh ! ho it was my duty to promise 
him my friendship, and I did it with fervour ; and 
who can have a better claim to it than Frederick ? 
he whose inclinations are always congenial to my 

own, he who discovers my thoughts before I give 
them utterance, whose tastes are all in unison with 

mine, who cherishes and venerates the father of my 
children ! and thou my Eliza, thou, the well be- 
loved of my heart, when wilt thou come, and by 
thy presence, bestow on me all that friendship can 
give of felicity ! this celestial sentiment supplies thO 
place of all those I have renounced ; it animates 
nature, it breathes every where ; I listen to it in 
the sounds I repeat, and their vibration finds an 
echo in my heart. It is it which causes my tears to 
flow ; it is for it alone, that they shall cease. . .Friend- 
ship ! thou art every thing ! the leaf that flutters, 
the rose that I gather, the perfume which it ex- 
hales ! I will live for thee, and with thee also may 
I expire. 


LETTER XIV. 


CLARA TO ELIZA. 

If my two last letters reanimated your doubt* 
Cousin, I hope that this will effectually remove 
them. Adelaide de Rainey has been here only three 
days, and she has already made a very lively im- 
pression on Frederick. I wished that he should 
riot know she was coming, that she might surprise 
him, and I succeeded. As soon as she arriv- 
ed, I led her to the pavilion on the banks of the 
river, I sent for. Frederick, he came immediately, 
but perceiving Adelaide beside me, an exclamation 
escaped him, the liveliest colour overspread his 
cheeks ; he approached, however, but with embar- 
rassment, and his timid and enquiring look seemed 
to say, are you she whom I seek '?.... Adelaide 
was about to complete disconcerting him by a wick- 
ed look, when I said smiling : — You are surprised 
Frederick to find me in such company .... Yes, 
replied he, I did not know that it was possible t® 


59 


be so beautiful .... tbis flattering compliment, and 
which in the mouth of Frederick, had so little the 
air of being one, immediately changed the disposi- 
tion of Adelaide ; she looked at him obligingly, and 
made him a sign to sit down beside her ; he quick- 
ly obeyed, and began a conversation which resem- 
bles very little, or I am much mistaken, those 
which this young person is accustomed to hear ; 
and indeed she said very little, but even her silence 
enchanted Frederick ; it appeared to him a proof of 
that modesty and timidity, which he admires above 
all things in a young person. Adelaide, on her 
side, seemed very much disposed in his favour. The 
admiration with which she inspires him flatters her, 
the charm of his conversation attracts her, and the 
fire of his imagination amuses her. Besides, Freder- 
ick's figure is \ery charming. If he has not what we 
call tournure , he has agility, address and grace, 
and all this may very well make an impression on 
a young heart of sixteen. Since a year in which I 
had not seen Adelaide, she is singularly improved, 
her eyes are black, lively and brilliant ; her brown 


d 4 


GO 


hair falls in ringlets on a neck of dazzling white- 
ness ; I never saw finer teeth, nor such vermillion 
lips ; and without being either a lover or a poet, I 
may say, that the rose, humid with the tears of 
Aurora, has neither the freshness, nor the lustre of 
her cheeks ; her complexion is a blossom, her 
tout-en-semble a grace ; it is impossible on seeing 
her, not to be struck with admiration, and Freder- 
ick I assure you leaves her as little as he can avoid. 
Does he come into the parlour, it is always at her 
he lo®ks, it is. to her he addresses himself, he has 
left far behind alt my lessons of politeness, and the 
scntimeut with which he is inspired, has taught 
him more in an hour, than my counsels could in 
three months ; when we walk, he hastens to offers 
his arm to Adelaide, to support her if she jumps 
over a rivulet, to pick up her glove when it falls, 
because it offers an opportunity of touching her 
white and delicate hand ! I do not know whether I 
am mistaken, but it seems to me, Eliza, the glove 
falls very often. 


61 


This morning Adelaide was examining a por^ 
trait of Zeuxis which is in the drawing room. It 
is odd said she, that which ever way I turn, the 
eyes of Zeuxis are fixed on me* — I believe so, 
warmly interrupted Frederick ; would they not seek 
the most beautiful You see my friend, how 
promptly the slightest emotion of preference forms 
a young man, and I hope that henceforth his 
friendship for me will give you no inquietude ; this 
word friendship is even too strong for that with 
which I had inspired him. because according to my 
ideas, love itself should not occasion friendship to be 
neglected. A single word, yes I am sure a single 
word from Adelaide would very soon annul the 
promise so solemnly given, never to quit us. In- 
deed Eliza, I blame myself for the disposition I had 
to attach myself to Frederick. When once a fate is 
fixed, like mine, as no circumstance can change 
the sentiments we feel, they remain always the 
same: but he, just at the age when the passions 
may hurry away, and subjugate him, can we ex- 
pect a durable sentiment on his part? no, friend- 


m 


ship would very soon be sacrificed, and I aione v 
should pay all its tribute, and then alas ! for me, my 
Eliza, for we know that this sentiment, exacts all 
it gives. May I see Frederick happy ! but tran- 
quilize yourself my friend, it is not me whom ha 
requires to render him so. 


m 


LETTER XV. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

If I have not written to you for a fortnight, my 
beloved friend, my silence has been occasioned by 
indisposition. On finishing my last letter I felt op- 
pressed and melancholy without knowing why, and 
was a very dull companion for the lively and brilli- 
ant Adelaide. I put off writing to you every day, 
because of the weakness which overwhelmed me, 
and at length a fever seized me. I feared that the 
derangement of my health would injure my child, 
and wished to wean her. The physician /whilst he 
acknowledged, that it would be right for the child, 
objected that it was wrong for me, because at a 
time when the humours are in motion, the milk 
might pass into the blood, and be attended with 
very injurious consequence's. My husband warm- 
ly supported this advice, I persisted in mine. At 
length he became angry, and told me he saw clear- 
ly I neither cared for his repose, nor his happi- 


ness, since I thought my life of so little impor- 
tance : and that be it as it would, he forbid my 
weaning her suddenly. I held Laura in my arms, 
and approaching him, I put her into his : — this 
child is yours my friend, said I to him, and your 
rights over her are as great as mine; but do you for 
get that in giving her life, we took the engage- 
ment of sacrificing ours to her good ? and if we 
lose her, do you think you could forget haying 
been the cause of her death, and ever console me 
for it ? in pity then to me, to yourself, remember 
that in competition with the interests of our chil- 
dren, ours should be as nothing — he gave me my 
daughter. Clara said he, you are free ; evil be to 
nim who could resist you. I promised M. d’Albe 
in reward for his condescension, to use all possible 
precautions, and this I have done ; my health is 
now a great deal better, and I hope in a few days, 
it will be perfectly re-established. Adelaide said 
to me this morning : I see Madame d’Albe, how 
far I am yet from the possibility of making a good 
mother ; I was terrified the other day, at the dm 


65 


ties you thought imposed on you towardsyour chil- 
dren ; you think you ought to sacrifice your exist- 
ence to them ! I was so surprized when I heard 
you say so, I was almost tempted to believe you 
were mad ...... mad ! cried Frederick. . .rather say 

sublime... you will hardly believe it my young 
friend, interrupted M. d’Albe, but in the world 
these two words are almost synomynous. You will 
hear those whose elevated souls disdain to be the 
copies of the copies, who surround them, accu- 
sed of eccentricity and taxed with a systematic spi- 
rit. 

This is very true, my Eliza and this injustice is 
a consequence of the narrow minds of the world, 
which in general always prompt people to endea- 
vour to reduce others to their level. But my head 
is too weak to write more— adieu my beloved 
friend. 


LETTER XV L 


CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Adelaide wished to go to a ball this evening; ; 
Frederick accompanies her, and my husband goes 
with them to be their mentor ; my two friends, 
wished very much to stay with me, Frederick par- 
ticularly urged Adelaide to prevent her leaving 
me. He wished to make her feel that as I was not 
well, it was not very delicate to leave me alone ; 
but the love of dancing prevailed over all these rea- 
sons, and she declared that a ball being her sole 
passion, nothing could prevent her going ; be- 
sides added she with a sarcastic smile, you know 
Madame d* Albe does not like that we should in- 
commode ourselves ; and then how can we fear 
she will be solitary, when we leave her with her 
children ? she dwelt upon the last word, with a 
sort of irony. Frederick looked at her mournfully. ! 
It is true replied he. In this consists her sweetest 
pleasure, and I see it does not belong to all the 


67 


world, to know how to appreciate it. You are 
right Miss Adelaide, every one should pursue the 
object most congenial to them ; that of Madame 
D’Albe is to be adored in fulfilling all her duties ; 



urnph. Adelaide perceived only an eulogium on 
her beauty in this phrase ; I discovered something 
i very different. I see too clearly, that notwithstand- 
ing Adelaide’s captivating charms, if her soul is 
not responsive to her face, she v/ill never fix Frede- 
rick. And jet, what may not be hoped for, from 
her age ? Eliza I will employ all my endeavours, to 
conceal defects which time may correct. We are in- 
vited to another ball in three days ; if I do not go, 
Adelaide will leave me again, and Frederick; will 
not forgive her." I am therefore determined to go 
with her, besides it is possible that a dance, and a 
visit to the beau monde, may divert me from a me-v 
lancholy which oppresses me, and acquires new 
power every day. I feel a langour, a sort of dis- 
gust, which discolours all the actions df life ; and 
as if it were not worth the trouble we take to pre- 
serve it. I find the fatigue of exertion in every 


thing, the pleasure of having acted in nothing. I 
know that the good we do to others is enjoyment for 
ourselves, but I say it rather than feel it and if I were 
not frequently agitated by sudden emotions, I should 
believe my soul about to be extinguished. I have 
no longer spirit for this solitude where we must 
suffice to ourselves. For the first time I feel the 
want of society, and I regret not having gone to 
;heball. Adieu, the pen drops fron} my hands. 


09 


LETTER XVII. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Adelaide paints in a superiour manner for her 
age ; she wished to take my picture, and I con- 
sented with pleasure, that I might present it to my 
fcusband. This morning whilst I was setting, Fred- 
erick joined us, he looked at what she had done, 
praised her talent, though with a half smile which 
did not escape Adelaide, and of which she asked an 
explanation . Without listening or replying to her, 
he continued to look first at the portrait, then at 
me, then at the portrait, and so on alternately. . . . 
Adelaide was impatient to know what he thought : 
at length, after a long silence, that is not Madame 
d’Alb.e, said he, you have not succeeded in catching 
one of her moments... how, cried Adelaide, blush- 
ing, what fault do you find with it ? do you not 
recognize all her features ? I acknowledge said he, 
that all her features are there, and if you saw only 
them in looking at her, you ought to he pleased 

E 1 


with your performance..,. What more would you 
have there ? What would I have ? that it should be 
acknowledged there are faces which art can never 
render, and that its insufficiency should at least be 
felt. This beautiful light hair, although touched 
with taste, yet presents neither the brilliancy, the 
softness, nor the undulations of hers. On this white 
and polished skin, I do not see either the delicate 
down which covers it, or the transparent colour of 
the blood reflected. This uniform complexion 
will never recall that, whose colours vary like 
thought : here is certainly the celestial blue of her 
eye, but I see only their colour ; it was their expres- 
sion that should have been rendered. This mouth 
is fresh and voluptuous like hers; but then this 
eternal smile, I wait in vain, the expression that 
should follow it. Those noble, graceful and en- 
chanting movements which her slightest gestures 

display, are enchained and immoveable No, no, 

features without life, can never render Clara ; and 
where I do not discover soul, I cannot recognize 
her.., Well, then, said Adelaide, angrily, paint her 


71 


yourself, for my part I shall have nothing more to 
do with it. Then throwing down her brushes, she 
got up and went out in an ill humour. Frederick’s 
eyes followed her with a look of surprise ; and then^ 
whilst a sigh escaped him, he said, into what an 
errour was I led, in seeing her so beautiful! I 
thought this woman must bear some resemblance 
| to you ; but to my misfortune, my eternal misfor- 
i tune, I see it alas ! too clearly, you are unique.... 

I cannot tell you, ray Eliza, how much these 
, words afflicted me. Recovering however from my 
emotion, I hastened to reply to him . . . .Frederick, 
said I, beware of forming a precipitate judgement, 
and suffering yourself to be influenced by prejudi- 
ces, which might disturb the happiness to which 
you perhaps are destined ; because Adelaide is not 
; precisely the chimera you have formed to yourself, 
ou^ht you therefore to shut your eyes to her true mer- 
its ? and besides, do you not know how much the 
character mav alter ? do you think that such and such 
persons who please you now so much because their 
m ind$ are formed , would have been supportable to 


72 


you seme years sooner. You are continualiy mak- 
ing comparisons ? but because the bud has not the 
fiagrance of the full blown flower, do you forget 
that it will one day possess it, and perhaps with a 
thousand times more sweetness ? Frederick rest as- 
sured that in her whom you should chuse, in her 
whose age would be in proportion to your own, 
you must neither expect perfect qualities, nor exer- 
cised virtues ; a good understanding and affection- 
ate heart are all you ought to seek ; an inclination 
to do right, all you should desire ; although these 
qualifications might be obscured by slight defects, 
should you therefore despond ? as there are few un- 
clouded mornings, so we rarely see youth without 
defects, but every day they diminish, above all when 
guided by a beloved hand. It is to you that will 
belong this interesting care ; it is you who must 
form the character of her who is destined for you, 
and this you can only accomplish, in chusing her 
of an age when the mind is yet ductile. But, O 
Frederick added I with solemnity, in the name of 

your repose, beware of lifting your thoughts to any 
e 2 


73 


other ! In pronouncing th^s* out of 

the room without waiting his n 

Eliza, I dare not tell you all I fen ; but Frede- 
rick’s air made me shudder : if it were possible. . . . 
but no, I am assuredly mistaken ; rendered uneasy 
by your apprehensions, influenced by your suspi- 
cions, I already discover the expression of a guilty 
passion where exists only that of friendship ; but 
of an ardent and impassioned friendship, such as a 
young and enthusiastick soul, new to the im- 
pression of this sentiment, must feel. I will 
watch over it with vigilance ; and as for me, 
O ! my beloved friend, banish your humiliating 
fears, rely on a heart which to breathe freely must 
be without reproach, and to which its own appro** 
bation is as indispensable as your friendship. 


74 


LETTER XVIII. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Eliza, how shall I paint to you my agitation, 
and my despair ? it is all over, I can no longer 
doubt, Frederick loves me. Do you feel all the hor- 
rour that this word conveys, circumstanced as we 
are ? Unfortunate Frederick ! my heart is oppress- 
ed, I cannot shed a tear. Oh ! God, why was he 
brought here? I know him my friend, he loves, 
and it will be for life ; he will eternally drag along 
with him the anguish by which he is devoured, and 
it is I, who am its cause ! Ah ! I feel it, there are 
griefs beyond all human strength to support. How 
shall I tell you all ? how compose my ideas ? In 
the disorder which agitates me, I can remember 
nothing. Dear, dear Eliza, why are you not here, 
that I might weep upon your sympathetick bo- 
som ! 

To day, we had just dined, when my husband 


75 


proposed a walk in the meadows that border the 
Loire. I consented with pleasure, Adelaide with 
a very bad grace, for she does not like walking ; 
but no matter, I was not to consult her taste, when 
the wishes of my husband were in question. I 
took my son with me, and Frederick accompanied 
us ; the weather was delightful. The meadows 
fresh, enamelled with flowers, and covered with 
numberless flocks, presented a charming landscape ; 
I contemplated it in silence, gently following the 
course of the river, when a loud and sudden noise 
awoke me from my reverie. I turned round ; 
great God ! a furious bull had escaped, and was 
running towards us, towards my son \ I precipi- 
tated myself before him, and covered Adolphus 
with my body. My action, my shrieks, alarmed the 
animal, he turned about and rushed on a poor old 
man. In short, my husband too, was about to be- 
come his victim, if Frederick, with the rapidity of 
lightning, had not risked his life to preserve him. 
With a vigorous arm, he seized the animal by the 


76 


horns, they struggled for a moment ; this gave the 
herdsmen time to arrive ; they ran, and very soon 
subdued the beast ! I now heard the cries of Ade- 
laide and the old man ; I ran towards the latter, 
his blood flowed from a dreadful wound. I 
staunched it with my handkerchief, I called to 
Adelaide to bring me hers ; she sent it by Freder- 
ick, declaring she could not bear the sight of 
Blood, and must return immediately to the house. 

How ! without having relieved the unfortunate 
wretch ! said Frederick ? are there not people enough 
here said «he ! for my part I have not strength to 
support the sight of a wound ; I require some 
salts to calm the violent agitation 1 have suffered, 
and if l stay here a moment longer, I shall faint. 
Whilst she was talking, the poor old man bemoan- 
ed the fate of his wife and children, whom his death 
would reduce to beggary. Prompted by the desire 
of consoling this unfortunate family, I begged my 
husband to go with Adelaide and Adolphus to the 
house, and to send the surgeon of the hospital iin- 


r- 1*' 

i * 

mediately to tlie village to which the old man di- 
rected me, and where Frederick and I determin- 
ed to have him carried. What! do you stay here 
Mr. Frederick, said Adelaide, with a look of vexa- 
tion ! do I stay, replied he, in a voice that made 

me tremble go Miss Adelaide, added he 

more gently ; go and repose yourself, this in truth 
is not your place. She went with M. d*Albe. Two 
herdsmen assisted us to make a litter, they placed 
the poor old man on it, and we conducted him to 
his cottage three miles from thence. Ah ! my 
Eliza, what a spectacle did this weeping family pre- 
sent ; what piercing cries did they not utter, on 
seeing a husband, a father in such a condition ! I 
pressed the unfortunate creatures to my bosom ; I 
mingled my tears with theirs; I promised them 
relief and protection, and my efforts succeeded in 
calming their affliction. The surgeon arrived in 
about an hour; he dressed the wound, and assur- 
ed us it was not mortal. I begged hyji to pass the 
night with the sufferer, and promised to return and 
visit them the next day. Then, as it began to grow 

E 4 


7S 


dark, and I feared my husband might be uneasy, 
Frederick and I left kv- . good people, loaded with 
their benedictions. 

With my heart fub cf he emotions I had expe- 
rienced, I walked on,* rdiendy ruminating on the 
heroic courage with , which Frederick had almost 
risked certain death to save Lis father’s life ; I cast 
my eyes upon him. The moor, beams gently illu- 
mined his face , i saw it bached in tears. I ap- 
proached him, my arm want upon his, he pressed 
it with violence to his /mart, and this movement, 
made mine pain wre O'.ara, Clara, said he, in a 
smothered voice mot 1 pay with my whole 

11: j. the prolongs 1 • bn a moment. 1 feel there, 

aguinsc .up* b >. m grosses it entirely; I 

DStin his arms, 

tell -me, c/ioc h ■ » are not 

an angel that we •: .• • ■ • d hem mi has 
lent for some m mm m u •' - , ;fym. are /rally 

a hum:; /( being J m ! . ved 

tnat sour, that -m . e t u- ,n& -t, that ex** 


70 


cess of charms and of virtues, which render you 
the object of my idolatry? Clara, I am ignorant 
whether I offend you, but as my life has passed 
into your veins, and I exist no longer but by 
your will, if lam guilty, say to me: Frederick 
die, and you will see me expire at your feet. He 
had in fact fallen at my feet ; his forehead was 
burning, his look distracted. No, I can never 
describe what I felt ; pity, emotion, the image of 
love, in short, such as I perhaps was destined to 
feel it, all this rushed into my heart ! I supported 
myself with difficulty, and leaning against the 
trunk of an old tree : — Frederick said I, dear Fre- 
derick, recover yourself, resume your reason ; would 
you afRictyour friend ; he raised his head, he rested 
it upon my knees : Eliza, I believe I pressed it, for 
he immediately exclaimed : O Clara ! let me again 
feel that adored hand which approaches me to thy 
bosom, which carries madness into mine. In say- 
ing this he caught me in his arms, my head fell 
upon his shoulder, a deluge of tears was my reply, 
the condition of the wretched youth inspired me 


80 


with the liveliest pity ! . . Ah ! when we know our- 
selves to be the cause of such anguish, and that it is 
a friend who suffers, say Eliza, may not the weak- 
ness I betrayed be pardonable? .... 1 was so near 
him .... I felt the impression of his lips, which ga- 
thered my tears. I trembled at this sensation, and 
repulsing Frederick with violence : Wretch ! cried I, 
do you forget that your benefactor, your father, is 
the husband of her, whom you dare to love ? would 
you act the part of a traitor ! O Frederick, reflect, 
recover your senses, my friend — .treachery cannot 
live in that noble bosom . . . .When suddenly rais- 
ing himself, he fixed his eyes on me with a look of 
horror, — what hast thou said ? Ah ! what hast thou 
said, inconceivable Clara ? I had forgotten the uni- 
verse at your feet— but your words like a bolt of 
thunder, shew me at once my duty and my crime. 
Adieu, I must fly you forever. Adieu, this is the 
last moment that will see us together. Clara, Clara, 

adieu He left me. Alarmed at his purpose, 

I called him in a voice of terrour ; he heard me 
and returned. Listen to me, said I, the worthy 


81 


man whose confidence you have abused, is igno- 
rant of your fault ; if he suspected it, his repose 
would be destroyed forever ; Frederick you have 
only one method of repairing it ; it is in extin- 
guishing the sentiment which offends him. If 
you fly, what will he think ? that you are perfidi- 
ous and ungrateful. You, his adopted child ! no, 
no, we must be silent, in short we must dissemble ; 
it is a dreadful punishment, but it belongs to the 
guilty to suffer, he must expiate his crime in bear- 
ing alone all its pressure. . . .Frederick did not re- 
ply, he seemed petrified ; suddenly we heard the 
noise of horses ; and I perceived the carriage which 
M. d’Albe had sent to meet me. Frederick, cried 
I, here are persons approaching, if virtue still lives 
in your heart, if the repose of your father is dear to 
you, if you attach any value to my esteem, ne/. v;. 
your words nor your manner wib b 'tray yo 
rour. . ..He did not answer ; still im.noveab’ , 
looked as if life had abandoned him ; Uic 
was coming rap dly towards us, 1 had b 
meat leit, already I heard my husband j . 


preaching Frederick speak, cried I, do you want 
to destroy me ? He shuddered .... Clara, replied 
he, you wish it ; you command, and shall be obey- 
ed ; at least you can judge of your pow<?r over me. 
As he uttered these words, the servants recognised 
me, and stopped the carriage : my husband alight- 
ed, I was extremely uneasy, my friends, said 
he ; you have staid a long time, if benevolence 
were not your excuse, I should not pardon you for 
having forgotten that I waited for you. Do you 
feel, Eliza, the agony that this reproach conveyed ! 
As for me, it struck me speechless ; but Frederick ! 
O love, wbat then is thy magic power ! Frederick, 
the frank, the open, the ingenuous Frederick, to 
whom until this moment, disguise had been a stran- 
ger ; changed in an instant ; a word, a command, 
produced this miracle ! he replied with a tranquil 
countenance : you are right my father, we have 
been wrong, but it shall be for the last time, I 
swear to you ; it was I alone who was led away by 
the force of my feelings, your wife did not forget 
you.“ You boast, Frederick, said M. d’Albe ; 1 


83 


know Clara’s feelings too well on this subject, they 
were as much hurried away as your own ; and if she 
thought cf me sooner, it was only because my 
claims upon her were greater ; is it not so my 
good Clara ? Eliza, I could not answer ; never, no 
never did I so suffer : can 1 then be guilty ! We 
got into the carriage and when we arrived, I ask- 
ed permission to retire ; ah, I did not feign, when 
I said I required repose ! say Eliza, say, why I 
should bear the punishment of a fault, in which I 
do not participate ? When I exacted of Frederick 
to conceal the truth, I did not know what it cost to 
disguise it, I dread the eye of my husband, 
of this friend whom I love, and whom my 
heart has never betrayed ; because Heaven is 
my witness, that it is friendship clone which inter- 
ests me in the fate of Frederick. I fear his ques- 
tioning me, and discovering all ; the idea of his 
conceiving the smallest suspicion, makes me trem- 
ble ; the whole happiness of his life would be de- 
stroyed ; Frederick must be sent away ; Frederick, 
whose mind, and whose society, diffuses so many 


84 


charm 5 over his existence ; he must cease to love 
the child of his adoption ; he must cast on the wide 
and unpitying world, the orphan, whom he has 
promised to protect ; he would imagine he heard 
his mother, crying to him in plaintive accents from 
the grave : you undertook the care of my child, 
this reflection enabled me to descend into the tomb 
in peace, and now you have driven him from your 
roof, without hope, without resource, consumed by 
a tormenting passion ; behold ! he languishes, he 
expires. Is it thus you fulfil your vows ? Eliza, 
my husband could never support such a reflection. 
Rather than purjure his faith, he would keep Fred- 
erick with him ; but then, adieu to happiness, cru- 
el distrust would poison every gesture, every look, 
the least word would be suspected, and domestick 
peace would be forever banished. And should I 
even be aloof from his suspicion ? Alas ! you know 
how long he doubted of the possibility of my lov- 
ing him ? in short, after seven years constant assi- 
duity, I had accomplished inspiring him with a 
perfect confidence in this respect ; who knows, 


S 5 


whether this event, would not entirely destroy it ? 
so much congeniality between Frederick and' my- 
self, so much conformity of tastes and of opinions ; 
he will neveT believe that a heart new to love like 
mine, can see with indifference, the passion with 
which I have inspired so transcendant a being. . . . 
he would at least doubt ; I should see this respect- 
able man, a prey to suspicion ! that countenance 
which now reflects the calm of content and satis- 
faction, would be darkened with cares and inqui- 
etude : the felicity I promised myself, of seeing 
him happy through me, to the end of my existence 
would forever vanish ! No, Eliza, no, X feel that 
purchasing his repose, at the price of perpetual dis- 
simulation, is more than to pay for it with my life; 
but there is no sacrifice upon which I ought not to 
resolve for him. Let Frederick seek a pretext to 
leave us, you will say ? but what pretext can he 
find ? You know that M. d’Albe alone excepted, 
his mother was on bad terms with every one of her 
relations, and that his father was a stranger. He 
then has no family, no friends but us, what reason 


could he all edge for such a departure, particularly* 
at the very moment, when the care of the manufac- 
tory, is almost entirely committed to his charge ? 
What could M. d’Albe think ? he would believe 
him either mad or ungrateful ; he would speak of 
it to me continually, what could I say ? or rather 
he would suspect the truth ; he knows Frederick 
too thoroughly, not to be persuaded that the dread 
of injuring his benefactor, is the sole motive that 
could induce him to quit this asylum ; but the mo- 
ment his suspicions are awakened towards him, they 
would be to me also ; he would remember my emo- 
tion ; I could no longer be sad with impunity, and 
from that instant all my fears would be realized. No, 
no, let Frederick stay, and be silent, I will careful- 
ly avoid being alone with him, and when to prevent 
it, is impossible, my extreme coldness shall deprive 
him of all hopes of profiting by it. But do you think 
he wishes it? ah ! my friend, if you knew the soul 
of Frederick as I know it, you would believe, that 
although the violence of passion may have subju- 
gated him for a moment, he is too noble to persist 


87 


in the desire of vicious and dishonourable gratifica- 
tion. 

Why has unjust heaven led him towards a wo- 
man, who belongs to another. Doubtless, she who 
had been free to make him happy, would have been 
too .But I know not what I say ; par- 

don me Eliza, my senses are not perfectly about 
me ; the image of this unfortunate being pursues 
me ; I hear his accents, they reverberate in my 
Iieart ! Alas ! if his grief proceeded from another 
cause, humanity would require of me, to soften it 
by all the tenderness that friendship allows, but be- 
cause it is I whom he loves, it is I for whom he 
suffers, I must be harsh and barbarous towards 
him ? How much does this shock the eternal laws 
of justice and of truth .... write to me Eliza, guide 
mt, I know not what to wish, I know not upon 
what to resolve, I am ill, and will not leave my 

F l 


room* 


m 


LETTER XIX, 

OLARA TO ELIZA. 

t have not yet left my chamber ; the idea of 
meeting Frederick makes me shudder, I have plead- 
ed indisposition, and in fact, I am il^, my hand 
trembles as I write, and I find it impossible to 
calm the agitation of my spirits. What must this 
terrible passion be, if the sight of it, if the pity 
which it inspires, is capable of producing the de- 
gree of suffering I endure ? Ah ! now I bless hea- 
ven, for having guaranteed me against its influ- 
ence ! It is now, that I feel I shall be forever in- 
different ; I was in more danger, when I believed, 
it might be a source of felicity ; but now when I 
see with what impetuosity it hurries on to folly 
and crime, I feel a horrour of it, which will preserve 
me from it, the rest of my days. 

, Eliza, O rny Eliza ! it w^as him, I have seen 
him, he has just opened the door ; he has thrown 
in a paper, and precipitately retreated ; his sup- 


80 

pliant look, seemed to say, read . But ought I ? I 
dare not take it ... . And yet if any one came, if it 

were seen I have read it ; ah, my friend ! 

these are the first tears I have shed since yesterday : 
1 have bathed his note with my tears ; I will endea- 
vour to transcribe it for you. 

FREDERICK TO CLARA. 

“ Why do you conceal yourself? why fly the 
“ day ? It is I alone, who should dread it. You, 
you are pure as the heaven, from whence it 
“ springs. 1 ’ 

Adieu, Eliza, I hear my husband, I will go, 
and encompass myself with my children. I know 
not if I shall answer it, I know not what to say.... 
No, it is better to be silent. Adieu. 


F 9 


m 

Note. 

FREDERICK TO CLARA. 

You avoid me, I perceive it ; you are ill, and 4 
js I who am its cause ; I dissemble with a Father, 
vvhom I love ; my heart offends a benefactor, who 
loads me with kindness ; Clara, heaven has not 
given me courage to support such woe. 

Note . 

CLARA TO FREDERICK. 

What would you dare to hint at ? A mo- 
ment of inconsideration led us to the verge of 
an abyss ; an instant’s weakness would plunge us 
into it. Can I have esteemed you too highly, in 
supposing you could repair your errour ; and wjll 
you do nothing for me f 


91 

Note . 

✓ 

FREDERICK TO CLARA. 

I am not master of my love, but I am of my 
life ; I cannot cease, to offend you, but in ceasing 
to exist ; every palpitation of my heart is a crime ; 
suffer me to die ? 

Note , 

CLARA TO FREDERICK. 

No, we have no right over our lives, when that 
of another is attached to ours. Tremble at the 
blow, you would strike. It is not you alone, it 
\yill destroy. 

Note. 

FREDERICK TO CLARA* 


I cannot resist you * . • * , .the tone, of your note. 


02 


a glimpse of heaven, I thought I perceived in it.... 
Ah ! Clara, were it possible. . . .since you persist 
in not seeing me alone, permit me at least, to 
write, that I may explain myself ; perhaps I shall 
not then appear so guilty in your eyes ; to-morrow 
morning, when I go to enquire for your health, 
deign to receive my letter. 


LETTER XX, 


/ 

FREDERICK TO CLARA, 

In the abyss of misery, into which I have fallen, 
if there is any tie that can attach me to life, it is 
the hope of regaining your esteem ; in shewing 
you my heart, such as it was, such as it is, now 
animated by you, perhaps you will not blush at the 
altar, on which you will be worshipped, until the 
last hour of my existence. 

You know, Clara, that I was brought up by a 
mother, who had married contrary to the wishes of 
her family. Love alone, filled up her days ; she 
transfused her ,soul into mine, with the nourish- 
-ment I drew from her bosom. She spoke to me 
unceasingly of my father, of the happiness of a mu- 
tual attachment ; I witnessed the charm of their 
union, and the excessive anguish of my mother, 
at the death of her husband ; an anguish, which 
consumed her by degrees, and destroyed her in a, 
very few years after him. 


94 


All these images, early disposed my heart to ten- 
derness ; whieh was still further excited to it, by 
dwelling amidst the mountains. It is in this wild 
and sublime scenery, that the imagination becomes 
exalted, and an enthusiasm is kindled in the heart, 
which ends by consuming it ; it was there that I 
created to myself a phantom, to which I delighted 
in offering a sort of worship ; often after having 
climbed one of those awful heights, from which the 
eye wanders over immensity : she is there, cried I, 
to myself, in a tender ecstacy, she, whom heaven 
has created, to constitute the felicity of my life ; 
perhaps my eyes are turned towards the spot, where 
she is mellowing to perfection, for my happiness ; 
perhaps at this moment, she is thinking of hint, 
whom she is to love : I personified her ; I gave 
her features ; I gifted her with every virtue ; I 
concentrated in a single being, all those qualifica- 
tions and accomplishments, which books and socie- 
ty had presented to my thoughts. At length, ex- 
hausting every thing delightful in nature, and all 

that my heart could adore, I imagined Clara ! 

Put no, that look, the most powerful of thy 


96 


charms, that expression which nothing can paint, 
nothing define, it belonged only to thee to pos~ 
sess ; imagination itself, could not reach it ! 

My mother had impressed on my mind, the 
soundest principles of morality, and the most pro- 
found respect, for the sacred tie of marriage ; when 
I arrived here, how far was I from thinking that 
3 married woman, that the wife of my benefactor, 
could be a dangerous object for me. I was sc 
much the less on my guard, because, although the 
first moment I beheld you, all my prejudices van- 
ished, and I thought you charming, yet a sly, I 
had almost said a malicious, smile which often plays 
on your lips, made me doubt the goodness of your 
heart. Perhaps too, you have not forgotten, that 
at that time, I ventured to tell you more than once, 
your husband was dearer to me than you ; it was 
not, that I did not even then feel a sort of contra- 
diction, between my reason and my heart, which 
surprised me, because I had until then, been a 
stranger to it. I could not explain to myself, how, 

loving your husband better, I felt most attracted 
f 4 


towards you ; by dint of questioning myself, on 
this point, I concluded, that as you were most 
agreeable, it was quite natural I should prefer your 
society to his, although I was fundamentally more 
attached to him. By degrees I discovered in you, 
not more goodness than in M. d’Albe, for in that 
no human being can surpass him, but a soul, more 
elevated, more tender and more delicate ; I saw 
you alternately gentle, sublime, touching and irre- 
sistable. Every thing great, every thing excellent 
is so natural in you, that it is necessary to observe 
you closely j to know how to appreciate you, and 
the simplicity, with which you exercise the most 
difficult virtues, would make them appear as ordi- 
nary qualifications, to an inattentive observer..... 
From that moment, I never ceased to contemplate 
you; I prided myself on my admiration ; I regarded 
it as the first of duties, since it was virtue which had 
inspired it, and whilst I imagined I loved only her 
in you, I became intoxicated with all the delirium 
of passion. Clara, I acknowledge ic, I often felt 
suph lively impressions when beside you, as might 
have awakened me to my real sentiments ; but you 


97 


are, doubtless, ignorant, how ingenious we are, in 
deceiving ourselves, when we foresee that the truth 
will snatch us from that which delights us ; an 
incomprehensible instinct, lends a subtilty to the 
mind, aided by sophistry, it dazzles reason and 
subjugates conscience. However mine was not yet 
silent ; I experienced an inward discontent, I felt 
a confused sensation of uneasiness, the true cause 
of which, I would not see ; this was without 
doubt, the secret source of the joy I felt, at the ar- 
rival of Mademoiselle de Rainey ; in beholding 
her, radiant with all your charms, I endued her 
also with your virtues, and believed myself saved . 
I was several days captivated - by her beauty, she 
is more regularly handsome than you ; I dared to 
compare you Ah! Clara, if the earth con- 

tains nothing more lovely than Adelaide, hea- 
ven alone can present me your model ! 

You esteem me enough, I hope, to believe that 
I did not require much time to measure, the dis- 
tance which separates your characters ; I recollect 
that one day, when you were eulogising her to me, 


giving xne to understand your design of promoting 
an union betwixt us, I felt humbled, that you 
should suppose, after having known you, I could 
content myself with Adelaide, and that yOu should 
esteem me so little, as to believe, that if beauty 
could attract me, something else was not requisite 
to fix my affections. O Clara ! exclaimed I, of- 
ten, addressing myself to your image, if you desire 
to see any other woman beloved, cease to be your- 
self the perfect model, whom they should all imi- 
tate ; no longer shew us, that they may unite good 
sense with candour, energy with gentleness, and 
perform with dignity, all those little duties, to 

which their sex and their lot subject them 

Clara, I did not yet confess to myself, that I loved 
you ; but often when attracted towards you by my 
heart, encouraged by the touching expression of 
your friendship, I have felt ready to press you in 
my arms, from an impulse, for which I could not ac- 
count. I retreated with difficulty, I dared not look 
at you, nor touch your hand, 1 recoiled even from the 
touch of your garments ; in short, I did from in- 
stinct, that which I ought to have done from reason ; 


99 


and yet one day Clara, dare l tell it, one day 

you begged me to untie the ribband of your veil ; 
while doing it, my eyes caught your bosom, a 
movement quicker than thought prompted me, I 
dared to press my lips upon your neck ; Adolphus 
was in my arms, you thought it was him ; I did 
not undeceive you, but I carried away with me a 
consuming flame, a tumultuous agitation ; I dis- 
covered the truth, and viewed myself with horror. 

At length the day, the fatal day, that my base 
weakness betrayed you, that which you never 
should have learnt. How far was I from believing, 
that it would so have ended ! All the morning, I 
had been rambling through the country, and rais- 
ing my soul in sincere piety, towards the author of 
my being, I had conjured him to preserve me from 
a seduction, the cause of which was so enchanting, 
its effects so fatal. These religious emotions, re- 
stored me to peace. I felt as if a divinity had plac- 
ed ‘ imself between us both, and I dared to ap- 
proach you without dread. 


100 


As a perfect calm, is often, the precursor of a 
violent tempest, a soothing tranquillity, to which I 
had long been a stranger, diffused itself through 
my breast, and spoke comfort to my heart. I ac- 
cepted with eagerness, the walk which M. d’Albe 
proposed, in order to behold again the beneficent 
appearance of nature, which had produced such sa- 
lutary effects on me in the morning ; but I beheld 
her with you, and she was no longer the same, the 
earth presented me, only the traces of your foot- 
steps ; the heavens, the air which you breathed ; a 
veil of love was cast over all nature, and shewed 
me your image, in every object I gazed at. In 
short, Clara, at the instant in which I saw you 
ready to sacrifice your life for your son, it was then 
alone, I felt all you were to me. A witness of the 
courageous sensibility, which prompted you to 
staunch a horrible wound, of that inexhaustible 
goodness, which pointed out to you every means 
of consoling the wretched, I then said to myself, 
that the most contemptible of beings would be him 
who could see, and not adore you, unless it were 
him, who dared to avow it to you. 


H)i 


It was in this disposition of mind, Clara, that I 
left the cottage, in which you had appeared like a 
beneficent deity ; the feeble light of the moon, dif- 
fused something melancholy and tender over the 
universe ; the soft and balmy air breathed voluptu- 
ousness, the calm which reigned around us, was 
disturbed only by the plaintive notes of the night- 
ingale ; we were alone in the world I divin- 

ed the danger, and had strength to move from you ; 
it was then that you approached, I felt you, and 
was lost : the truth, until then concealed with dif- 
ficulty, escaped, burning from my bosom, and you 
beheld me, as guilty, as wretched, as it is given to 
mortals to he. At this moment, when I had just 
yielde vitfc phrensy, to all the excess of passion ; 
at this moment, when you recall to my recollec- 
tion, the outrage I committed against my benefac-* 
tor, when the image of my ingratitude, all horri- 
ble as it was, combated but feebly, the sentiment 
which drew me towards you, I perceive my father 
wild, distracted, I would fly; you com- 
mand me to return and dissemble : dissemble ; I ! 
good heavens, I believed it was easier to die than 


102 


to obey you ; I was mistaken ; impossibility ex- 
ists no longer, when Clara commands, her power 
over me, like that of the divinity himself, stops only 
where love commences. 

Clara, I will not deceive you, if in your plans for 
me, you anticipate hopes of my cure, you deceive 
yourself ; I cannot, I will not cease to love you ; 
no, I will not ; there is no part of myself, which 
combats the adoration I bear you. I will love you, 
because you are what is most perfect in creation, 
and my passion injures no one ; I will love you, 
in short, because you command me to do so ; have 
you not desired me to live ? 

Listen, Clara. I have examined my heart, and I 
do not believe I offend my father, in loving you. 
By what right could he exact us to know, without 
appreciating you, and of what does my love deprive 
him? Have I conceived a hope, have I even a wish 
that you should return my tenderness ? Ah ! beware 
how you believe it ? So far am I from this, that it 
would be to me the greatest of evils ; for it would 


103 


be theonly means of destroying my admiration,.., 
Clara contemptible, would be no longer worthy of 
my love ; Clara degraded, would be no longer 
you ; cease to be perfect ; cease to be yourself, and 
I no longer fear you. After this declaration, 
strange perhaps, but true, but sincere, what do you 
risk in permitting me to love you ? Suffer me al- 
ways to adore virtue, and to lend her your features, 
to encourage me in the pursuit of her, then there is. 
nothing of which she will not render me capable... 
My reason, my conscience are no longer but eman- 
ations from you ; it is to you, that belongs the 
care of my future conduct. I place my destiny 
; in your hands, and render you responsible, for 
the manner in which I accomplish it ; if your cru- 
i city rejects me, if I am forbidden to approach you, 
i every spring of my existence is loosened, my facul- 
ties sink into a void. Removed from you, lam 
no longer myself, I can no longer distinguish vir- 
tue, humanity, honour ! Oh ! celestial Clara l 
let me see, let me hear, let me adore you ; I shall 
be great, virtuous, magnanimous ; a chaste pas- 
sion like mine, can offend no one ; it is a child of 


104 


heaven, whom the divinity has permitted to dwell 
amongst mortals. 

I will not quit this abqde, I will employ every 
moment of my life in imitating you, and contribute 
ing to the happiness of my father. This worthy 
man loves me, he entreats me to direct the studies 
of his son ; Clara, I attach myself to your family, 
to your fate, to your children ; I will become a 
part of you in spite even of yourself. This is my 
vocation, I will have no other. Speak to me no 
more of other ties, of marrriage, all is over, my fate 
is irrecoverably fixed. 

I promise you to revere in silence, the sacred ob* 
ject of my worship; consumed with passion, a 
prey to futile wishes, neither my words, nor looks, 
shall betray my anguish ; you will forget what I 
have dared to avow to you, and I swear never to 
recal it to your recollection. Clara, if my situation 
appears distressing to you ; if your tender heart 
could be touched with compassion, do not pity me 
there is in your last note, a word ! , , , , Source of 


10 5 


ravishing illusion, it made me taste for a moment, 
all the felicity, the ecstatic felicity, to which hu- 
manity can reach ! O Clara ! do not rob me of 
my errour ! What would you gain ? I know it is 
one, but it enchants, it consoles me ; it is it which 
will dry up my tears ; leave me its precious pos- 
session ; it was not by your own consent, you gave 
it me ; I seized it, in short, when you commanded 
me to live ; would you have the barbarity to tear 
it from me ? 


e 1 


100 * 


LETTER XXL. 

CLARA TO FREDERICK. 

Your letter is pitiable. Were it not that of a 
wretched being, whom we must endeavour to re- 
claim, it would be that of a mad man* who should 
be driven from our roof? The delirium of your 
reason alone, could blind you to the contradictions 
with which it is filled. This word, which I ought 
to disclaim, this expression, which alone could re- 
attach you to life, is it not the same which would 
render Clara contemptible in your eyes, if she dar- 
ed to pronounce it ? And was ever a chaste passion 
alive to culpable desires, and did it ever purloin 
guilty indulgence ? Unfortunate creature ! exa- 
mine yourself well ; your heart will teach you, that 
love cannot exist without hope, and that you enter- 
tain the criminal desire of seducing the wife of your 
benefactor : It is possible that the weakness of 
which I was guilty, in listening to, in replying to 
you ; that which I have shewn in tolerating your 
presence, after the inconceivable vow you have ta- 


107 


ken, may authorise your presumptious hopes ; bu 
know, that though, even my heart should escape 
me, you would not be more happy ; for Clara 
would expire, rather than be guilty. 

I will answer your letter another time, at pre- 
sent it is impossible. 


108 


LETTER XXI L 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Ah ! what have you said, my tender friend ! to 
what horrible conviction, have you just awakened 
me ? Who, 1.. .1 love ! You believe it, and yet 
speak to me ? And you do not blush at the name 
of friend, which I dare to give you ? What ! un- 
der the very eye of the most respectable of men, of 
my husband, a perjurer of my faith, I should dare 
to love the son of his adoption ? the son whom his 
goodness called here, and his confidence placed in 
my hands ; instead of the virtuous counsels, with 
which I promised to impress his heart, I inspire 
him with a criminal passion ? instead of the exam- 
ple I should set before him, I participate in it ?.... 
O shame ! shame ! eveiy word that 1 trace reflects a 
crime, and 1 turn away my view in shuddering.... 
Tell me, Eliza, what must I do ? If you yet esteem 
me enough to direct me, save me from this abyss, 
which you have just shewn me, in all its honour. I 
am ready to do any thing ; there is no sacrifice whick 


109 


1 would not make : must I cease to see him, ba- 
nish him, pierce his heart and my own ? I am re- 
solved upon it, virtue is dearer to me than my own 

life, than his Unfortunate being ! in what a 

state is he ! he speaks not, lie consumes himself in 
silence, and for the reward of such an effort, I must 
say to him begone from hence ; go, expire with 
misery and despair ; you asked only to behold me, 
this blessing alone consoled you, compensated you 
for all. Well, I refuse it. ..... Eliza, I think I 
see him ; his eyes fixed on me, their mute expres- 
sion declaring to me all he suffers, and you com- 
mand me to resist it ? How ? cannot we cherish 
honour without being barbarous and unnatural 
and does virtue ever exact human victims ? Suffer 
me, suffer me to adopt a more gentle method ; why 
irritate wounds, instead of healing them ? With- 
out doubt, I am resolved upon his departure, but 
my friendship must prepare him for it ; we must 
discover a pretext ; an inclination to travel, and in- 
dulge a natural and laudable curiosity, common to 
his age, will serve as one ; and I have no doubt of 
M. d’Albe’s consent. Trust to me, Eliza, the 
g 3 


110 


eare of separating myself from Frederick ; ah ! I 
am too much interested in it, not to succeed ! 

How shall I express to you what I suffer ? i\de- 
laide went home yesterday, and my husband, un- 
easy at the state of my health, {eaves me as seldom 
as possible ; lam compelled to restrain my tears, 
I tremble lest he should see their traces, and dis- 
cover from whence they flow. lie is surprised, that I 
have forbidden every one’s coming into my cham- 
ber. My good friend, said be to me, just now, 
why do you admit only the children and myself to 

your room ; has my Frederick displeased you ? 

This simple question made me shudder ; I fancied 
he had guessed the state of my mind, and wanted 
to sound me. O, torments of a troubled con-, 
science ! it is thus, that I suspect in the most up- 
right, the best of men, a dissimulation of which I 
alone am capable ; ah ! I see too well, the first 
punishment of the wicked, is to believe that others 
resemble them. 


Ill 


LETTER XXIII. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

This morning for the first time, I went down t® 
breakfast ; I was pale, and feeble ; Frederick was 
there, reading beside the fire-place ; when he saw 
me enter, he changed colour, laid down his book, 
and approached me ; I did not venture to look at 
3iim ; my husband brought me a chair ; in turn- 
ing it round, my eyes caught the looking-glass ; I 
met those of Frederick, and not able to support 

their expression,’ I fell motionless into my seat 

Frederick terrified, advanced, and M. d’Albe as 
much alarmed as he was, put me into his arms, 
while he ran to my chamber for salts. Frederick's 
arm was round my waist ; I felt his hand upon 
my heart ; all my blood rushed towards it ; he felt 
it beat with violence. Clara, said he, to me, in a 
low voice, and mine too, it is there only, that there 

is life and motion tell me, added he, bending 

his face towards mine, tell me, I conjure thee, that 

it is not hatred which makes it thus palpitate. .... 
g 4 


113 


Eliza, I inhaled his breath, it convulsed my soul, 
I felt my brain wander. .... .In my terror, I re- 
pulsed his hand, I raised myself ; bg&e me said I, 
in the name of heaven leave me, you know not the 
ill you do me. My husband came in, his exertions 
soon recovered me. When I had got a little better, 
he expressed to me all the uneasiness my situation 
gave him. I never saw you suffer so strangely, 
said he, my Clara, I fear that a revulsion of milk 
is the cause of this change, which seriously alarms 
me ; let me conjure you, consult some enlighten- 
ed physician. Eliza, my heart almost burst, it 
cannot support the weight of continual dissimula- 
tion ; in seeing the error into which I led my hus- 
band, in seeing beside me, the too well loved part- 
ner of my guilt, I could have wished, that the 
earth had swallowed us both. I pressed M. 
d’Albe’s hands upon my forehead .... My friend, 
said I, to him, I feel myself, in fact, very ill ; but 
do not refuse me your cares, heal me, save me, re- 
store me to the power of consecrating my days to 
your happiness, whatever means you may adopt, be 
assured of my everlasting gratitude. He looked 


113 


surprised, I trembled with the dread of having said 
too much ; then endeavouring to give it another 
turn, I attributed the weakness of my head to the 
norse and strong light, and desired to return to my 
chamber. He begged Frederick to help him to 
support me ; I could not have refused his arm, 
without awakening suspicions, which a single word 
would be perhaps, sufficient to produce ; but, Eli- 
za, shall I tell you, in raising my eyes towards 
those of Frederick, I thought I perceived in them, 
something rather touched, than sorrowful ; I even 
thought I distinguished a slight movement of plea- 

sure Ah, I no longer doubt ! my weakness 

has betrayed him my secret, my emotion before M. 
d'Albe, did not escape him ; he has seen my com- 
bats, he has learned that he is beloved, and perhaps 
he exulted in a disorder, which shewed him the ex- 
tent of his power ? . . . . Eliza, this idea restores me 
to pride and to courage ; believe me, I shall know 
how to conquer myself, and to undeceive him ; it 
is time this torment should cease, your letter has 
pointed out my duty, and at least, I am yet worthy 

of listening to it. I am going to write to him ; 
g 5 


114 


yes, my beloved friend, I am resolved ; he shall 
go. May he forget me, may he form some happier 
attachment : heaven is my witness, that this wish 
is sincere ; and to gain fortitude to resist him, I 
will go and read over that letter, in which you 
paint to me the duties of a wife and mother, in co- 
lours which it belonged only to my inestimable 
friend, to pourtray. Adieu. 


115 


LETTER XXIV. 

CLARA TO FREDERICK. 

I do not know to what degree virtue has lost her 
influence over your soul, and if the passion, with 
which I have inspired you, has not so far degraded 
you, as to render you incapable of an honest and 
courageous action ; but I declare to you that in 
two days, if you have not executed what I am 
about to prescribe to you, Clara will no longer 
esteem you. 

My husband loves you, and centres his happiness 
in your society ; I have hitherto, and I will still, 
leave him ignorant, of an error, which did he suspect, 
it would destroy his peace, and perhaps his affec- 
tion for you ; but in concealing the truth from 
him, I have necessarily imposed on myself the duty 
of acting as he would do, were it known to him. 
Go then, Frederick ; leave a place which you fill 
with sorrow, purify your heart, and above allffor- 
<ret a woman, whom the most sacred duties com- 

to ’ 


116 ' 


mand you to respect ; I will see you only when 
this is acomplished. 

An inclination to travel, is one of the most pre- 
dominant in young men ; adopt this pretext to re- 
move from hence ; express to your father, your de- 
sire to go and improve yourself in visiting foreign 
climes. The excellent man whom you offend, 
will afflict himself at your absence, but will sacri- 
fice his own satisfaction, to that of an ungrateful 
being, who so badly recompences him. As soon 
as you have obtained his permission, which I shall 
hasten by every means in my power, you must se t 
off without delay. I forbid you to see me alone... 
I will not receive your adieus; do not however sup- 
pose, that I think this precaution necessary to my 
peace ; no, to adhere to virtue, is with me a neces* 
sity, and not an effort ; and could it be ever sha- 
ken, it would not be by the man who, suffering 
himself to be governed by a guilty passion, excuses 
instead of combating it, and humbles her who is its 
object, in rendering her the cause of the degrada- 
tion to which he is reduced. 


117 


LETTER XXV. 

PREDEKICK TO CLARA. 

Why is it necessary coldly to insult the victim 
whom we devote to death ? why was it necessary 
for you to inflict it on me, by talking to me of your 
hatred ? The command for my departure was 
enough ; but it was sweet to you to shew me, to 
what a degree I am odious in your sight. I did 
not recognise Clara in such barbarity. 

You see I am composed ; your letter has con-» 
gealed the terrible agitations of my blood, and I 
am in a condition to reason. 

Why should I go, Clara ? If it is for your hus- 
band, and that the sentiment which I bear in my 
heart, is an outrage to him, where will you find a 
spot in the universe, in which I shall cease to of- 
fend him ?/ beneath the frozen poles, under the 
burning tropic, whilst my heart continues to beat, 
it will adore Ciara ; if it is a cold pity which inter- 


v 


118 


ests you in me, I reject it. It is not that which 
will soothe my woes, and you make me too wretch- 
ed, for me to suffer you to become the arbiter pf 
my fate. 


/ 


1X9 


LETTER XXVI. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Where am I, Eliza, and what have I done; an 
alarming fatality pursues me ; I see the precipice into 
which I am plunging, and it seems as if an invisible 
hand thrust me into it in despite of myself. It was 
not enough that a criminal passion had corrupted my 
heart, to avow it was still wanting, to complete my 
shame. Led away by a power which I had no force 
to combat, Frederick knows the excessof a passion, 
which makes of your friend, the most contempt^ 
ble of creatures. . . .1 know not why I yet write to 
you ; there are situations which admit of no conso- 
lation, and your pity can no more snatch me from 
remorse, than your counsels repair my crime. Eter- 
nal repentance has taken possesssion of my heart, 
it rends, it devours it ; I dare not measure the abyss, 
in which I lose myself, and I know not where to 

fix the limits of my weakness I adore Lrc- 

derick, I see only him in the whole universe ; he 
knows it, I delight to repeat it to him ; were he there 


120 


i 


1 would tell it to him again, for in the delirium to 
which 1 am a prey, I no longer know myself. ... I 
wished to write to you all that had passed ; but I 
cannot, my trembling hand can hardiy trace these 
unsteady lines. ... ...in a calmer moment perhaps 
. . . .Ah ! what have I said ?' calm, peace, for me, 
are fled forever ! ! ! 





121 


n 

LETTER XXVII, 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Since three days Eliza, I have attempted in 
vain to write to you ; my hand has refused to trace 
f the testimony of my shame ; I will do it however ; 
I want your contempt ; I merit it, and I ask it ; 
your indulgence would be hateful to me ; my 
crime ought not to remain unpunished, and for- 
giveness would humble me, more than reproaches. 
Remember, Eliza, that you can no longer love me 
without debasing yourself, and at least leave me 
the consolation of esteeming myself in my friend. 

Frederick’s letter,* which you find joined to this, 
had restored me to a sense of my own d ignity ; I 
was astonished that I should have feared a man 
who could dare to tell me he disdained my esteem : 
impatient to prove to him that he had lost it, I con- 
quered my indisposition to appear at dinner; my 


* Letter XXV. 


122 


manner was calm, indifferent, and imposing ; t 
looked haughtily at Frederick, and solely occupi- 
ed with my husband and my children, I hardly re- 
plied to two or three questions he addressed me, 
and found a cruel delight, in shewing how little I 
regarded him. When we left the table, Adolphus 
seated himself in my lap : he gave me an account 
cf the different studies in which hehad beed'engag- 
ed during my illness ; it was constantly his cousin 
Frederick who had taught him this, and a les- 
son never wearied him, when it was his cousin Fre„ 
derick who gave it. It is so amusing to read with 
him, said my son, he explains to me so perfectly all I 
do not understand ; however this morning he would 
not, all I could do, tell ( ine what virtue was, he desi- 
red me to ask you. Mamma ? It is firmness my son 
replied I, it is courage to execute rigorously all we 
think right, whatever pain it may give us. It is a 
great and generous impulse, of which you rather 
offers you the frequent example, but of which your 
cousin could certainly give you no idea. ...In 
saying these last words, which Frederick alone un- 
derstood, I cast an eye of disdain towards him .... 


0 my Eliza ! he was pale, tears rolled hi his eyes, 
his features expressed despair; but faithful* to his 
promise of repressing his emotions before my hus- 
band, he continued to converse with an appearance 
of tranquillity. M. d’Albe, with his eyes fixed on 
his book, did not observe the condition of his 
friend, and replied without looking at him. As 
for me, Eliza, from this moment, all my resolu- 
tion vanished ; I thought I had been severe and 
barbarous ; I would have given my life, to have 
addressed a single tender word to Frederick, to re- 
pair the wound I had indicted on him ; and for 
the first time I wished M. d’Albe to leave the 
room. Day closed apace: plunged in a reverie, 

1 had ceased talking, when M. d’Albe no longer 
seeing to read, asked me for some music. I com- 
plied, Frederick brought my harp, and I sung, X 
hardly know what ; I only remember that it was a 
ballad, that Frederick shed tears, and that mine, 
which l restrained with difficulty, almost cboaked 
me in falling again upon my heart. At this mo- 
ment, Eliza, some one asked for my husband ; he 

went out, a confused instinct of the danger which 

H I 


124 


I was in, made me rise precipitately to follow him ; 
my gown caught in the pedals, I missed my foot, 
fell, and Frederick received me in his arms — I at- 
tempted to call, sobs choaked my utterance ; he 
pressed me forcibly to his bosom at this mo- 

ment all vanished, duty, husband, honor ; Frede- 
rick was the universe, and love, delicious love, my 

every thought .Clara, cried he, a word, a 

single word, say what agitates you ? Ah, cried I, 
desperately, if you would know, create me language 
to express it ! I sunk into a chair ; he threw 
himself at my feet, I felt his arms about my waist ; 
my face leaning onhis forehead, inhaling his breath ; 
1 no longer resisted. Oh ! adored Clara, cried he, 
what inexpressible delight do I feel at this mo- 
ment ; supreme felicity rushes into my soul : yes, 
this delirum of happiness, was reserved for the mor- 
tal beloved by thee. Ah 1 let me hear again from 
those adored lips, the celestial truth, of which the 
hope alone, has breathed intoxication through my 
veins ! . ... If I love you Frederick ! dare you ask 
it ? Conceive what must be the passion, which re- 
duces Clara to the state in which you behold her : 


1 ?5 


yes, fervently, passionately, 1 adore you, and at this 
moment when to tell it to you I forget the most 
sacred duties, I delight in the excess of my weak- 
ness, which proves to you, that of my love 

Oh ! indelible remembrance of shame and plea- 
sure ! at this moment, Frederick’s lips touched- 
mine ; I was lost, if virtue by a last effort, had not 
rent aside the veil of voluptuousness, with which I 
was enveloped ; tearing myself from Frederick’s 
arms, I threw myself at his feet. Ah ! spare me, 
I implore you, cried I ; render me not vile, that 
you still may love me. In this moment of disor- 
der, in which I am entirely submitted to your pow- 
er, you may, I know, obtain an easy victory, but 
if I am yours to day, to-morrow the arms of death 
encircle me ; I swear it in the name of that honour 
which I outrage, but which is more necessary to 
the soul of Clara, than the air she breathes : Frede^ 
rick, Frederick, behold her, prostrate, humbled at 
your feet, and merit her eternal gratitude, in not 
rendering her the most degraded, the basest of crea r 
lures, . . .Rise, cried he, retreating from me, rise, 

angelic woman, object of my profoundest venera- 

h 2 


tlon, and of my eternal love ! thy lover resists not 
the accem of thy agony ; but in the name of that 
heaven, whose image you are, forget not that the 
greatest sacrifice of which man is capable, you 
have just obtained from me. He rushed out cf the 
room ; I went to my chamber, reason had almost 
forsak. :■ her seat; long faintings succeeded these 
violent agnations. When I recoved my senses, I 
found my husband beside my bed ; I repulsed him 
with terror, thinking I saw in him the sovereign 
arbiter of destinies, about to pronounce my. doom. 
What is the matter, my Clara, cried he, in a sor- 
rowful ione, dear and tender friend, it is your 
husband who holds out his arms to you. 1 was 
silent, 1 felt that if I had spoken, 1 should have 
tola ail ; perhaps I ought ; instinct prompted me 
to do so ; but whilst the confession trembled on my 
hps ; reflexion restrained me. Far he from me the 
barbarous candour, which would solace my heart, 
at the expence of my worthy husband ! In conceal- 
ing it, I remain alone charged with the weight of 
my misfortune and'his ; the truth would devolve 
upon him a part of the woe, which shpuld belong 


127 


to me alone. Too respectable man ! you would 
never support the idea of knowing your wife, your 
friend, a prey to the torments of a criminal passion ; 
and the necessity of despising her who was once 
your glory ; and of banishing from your roof, he 
whom you had taken to your bosom, would embitter 
your last days ; I should see your venerable coun- 
tenance, which has never yet reflected aught but 
benevolence and humanity, . changed by the regret 
of having loved only ungrateful beings; suffused 
with the shame, which I shall have cast over it ; I 
should hear you calling on death, which grief 
would, perhaps, accelerate, and to the remorse of 
perjury, I should thus add the weight of homicide. 
O miserable Clara ! does not thy blood freeze in 
thy veins, at the contemplation of such an image ? 
Is it indeed thee, who has fallen into this gulph of 
misery ? And canst thou know thyself, in the pic- 
ture of a faithless woman, who dares not acknow- 
ledge what passes in her heart, in the dread of strik- 
ing a death blow, into that of her husband ? What ? 
And will not such a picture, force thee to abjure the 

detestable passion that consumes thee ? Will it not 
h 3 


128 


compel thee to abhor the odious accomplice of thy 
crime. Frederick ! . .Frederick, what have I said ! 1 
bate him ! I renounce a happiness for which, there 
is no expression ! the bliss of hearing him say 
he loves me ? Banish him from this asylum, 
no longer see, no longer hear him ? Ha ! 
what are the crimes that would not be too severely 
punished by such a sacrifice ? And how have I de- 
served it ? Retired from the world, I was tranquil 
in my solitude ; centering my happiness in that of 
my husband, I formed no other wish : he brings 
me a charming young man, endued with all that 
virtue has of most noble ; genius, most captivating, 
and nature most attractive : be asks my friendship for 
him, he leaves us continual iy together ; morning, 
noon and night, I see him everywhere, he is never ab- 
sent; always alone beneath the shades, in the midst 
of nature, which is renovating its endless beauties, 
we must have been created to have hated each' oth- 
er, if we had not loved. Imprudent husband ! 
why thus approach two beings, whom mutual sym- 
pathy attracted towards each other ? Two beings 
new to love, who might feel and nourish its first 


120 

impressions, without suspecting the source from 
whence they sprung. Why, above all, spread over 
them the dangerous veil of friendship, which must 
so long remain an illusion, to blind them to their 
real sentiments ! It belonged to you, to your expe- 
rience, to foresee the danger, and preserve us from 
it : far from this, when it is your hand which 
draws us into it, which strews it with flowers, and 
hastens us towards it ; why terrible and menacing, 
do you come to reproach us with a fault, which is 
i yours alone, and command us to expiate it, by the 

most agonizing punishment? What have I 

said, Eliza, it is Frederick I love, it is my husband 
I I aceuse ! *tis Frederick, who has seen me weak, 
resistless within his arms, it is he who I would de- 
< tain here ! O Eliza ! you will be greatly changed, 
if you recognize your friend, in one who in such a 
'situation, can have any difficulty in knowing how 
to act. 


K 4 


130 


LETTER XXVIII. 

FREDERICK TO CLARA. 

Clara, too enchanting Clara, who art thou, that 
thou shouldst create in my bosom, feelings so oppos- 
ed to each other ? To transport me in an instant, 
from the excess of happiness to that of misery ? . . 
Those melting eyes, which it is impossible to be- 
hold without the liveliest emotions, those eyes which 
belong only to Clara, the cherished idol of my 
heart, the first, the only object of my love ; those 
eyes in which you yesterday allowed me to read the 
expression of tenderness, are to day, clouded with 
grief and severity ; and my soul, in which you 
reign despotically, my soul, which no longer feels, 
but as you inspire it, sinks beneath your sorrow 
without knowing its cause. O my gentle, my 
charming friend ! beware of thinking yourself 
guilty, nor of afflrcting yourself for the happiness 
you have given me ; repentance should not enter 
where guilt never dwelt. Thou dread crime, my 
Clara ! a single look of thine would annihilate it. 


131 


Too adored and timid Clara, dare you think that 
the divinity who created you in his image, leads us 
to vice, by the path of ecstatic, of transcendant hap- 
piness ? No, no, these ardours, these transports, 
these enchanting emotions, secure me against re- 
morse, and 1 feel myself too happy to be criminal. 
Ah ! let me once more regain those moments of 

bliss, when straining thee to my bosom, and inhal- 

* 

idgthy celestial breathings, I gathered- from thy 
lips, all that the immensity of the universe, can be- 
stow cf heaven on mortals. 

Clara, you put me away from you, but I did not 
leave you ; imagination placed you in my bosom, 
I overwhelmed you with tears and caresses ; my 
eager mouth pressed thine ; Clara did not defend 
Jierself, Clara participated in my transports ; with 
w other guide, but her heart and nature, she for- 
got the world ; she was awake only to love, she 
saw only her lover. Ah ! Clara, it is not in such 
him that crime exists. 


H D 




Clara, I love you to idolatry, your image con- 
sumes me, your approach enflames me ; too many 
sensations madden me ; I must die, or indulge 
them. Let me see you, I conjure you, do not fly 
me, let me press you once more to my heart, my 
arms open to receive you, but it is a shadow, which 
mocks me. I write to you on my knees, the paper 
is bathed with my tears ; Oh ! Clara, one more of 
thy embraces, yet one more, there are pleasures too 
lively, to be tasted twice, without expiring. 


1 SB 


LETTER XXIX. * 

FREDERICK TO CLARA, 

I cannot sleep ; I wander through the house, I 
seek the last place that you occupied ; my lips press 
thesopha on which you so long reposed, I seize the 
flower which has escaped from your bosom, I kiss 
the traces of your footsteps, I approach the apart- 
ment where you sleep, that sanctuary which would 
be the object of my most ardent desires, were it not 
that of my most profound respect. My tears bathe 
the threshold of your door ; I listen if the silence 
of night, will not enable me to catch some of your 

movements I listen. . . .O Clara, Clara ! I 

am not mistaken, I heard thee groan, my friend, 
thou weepest, what then causes thy pain? (1) 
When I owe thee a bliss of which the rest of the 
world can form no id.ea, since no mortal has been 
loved by thee, what can still afflict thee ? Clara, 

(!) If he did not ask this question, he would be a 
monster, for the folly of love would be incomplete. 

[Author* s note .] 


134 


how feeble is thy passion, if it leaves thee a thought 
or a feeling but for itself, and if its influence has 
not extinguished all the other faculties of thy soul I 
as for me, I am alive neither to the past, nor the 
future : absorbed by thee, I see thee alone in the 
universe, all other beings are annihilated in iiiy 
thoughts; they pass before me like a shadow, I have 
no longer senses to see, nor a heart to love them. . . 
Friendship, duty, gratitude, I no longer feel them, 
love, ardent, impassioned love, has swallowed up 
all : it has united in a single point, all the sensible 
parts of my being, and has impressed it with the 
image of my Clara ; this is the temple in which I 
adore thee in silence, when thou art far from me ; 
but if I hear the sound of thy voice, if my eyes 
meet thine, if I press thee gently to my bosom .... 
then it is no longer my heart alone which palpi- 
tates, it is my whole being ; thine eyes shed a 
torrent of voluptuousness which innundates my 
soul ; lost in love and tenderness, I feel all 
my faculties bound towards thee ; I would 
fold thee in my arms, inhale thy breath, feel thy 


135 


heart beat against mine, and lose myself with thee, 
in a heaven of transport. 

But oh i my Clara, you alone unite this incon- 
ceivable mixture of modesty and voluptuousness, 
which attracts and repulses continually, and eter- 
nalizes love ; you alone, blend that which at once 
commands respect and awakens desire ; but where 
shall I find words to express the sentiment with 
which an enchanting woman inspires me ; she who 
is the most perfect of creatures, the living image of 
the divinity, and what language would be worthy 
of her ? I feel that all my ideas become confused 
before thee, as before an angel descended from hea- 
ven ; engrossed with thy adored image, I have no 
other feeling, but that of adoration for thy perfec- 
tions ; every other thought but of thee has vanish- 
ed ; in vain I seek to fix, to 'collect, to arrange my 
ideas ; in vain do I seek words to trace lines which 
might paint to thee what I feel : expression fails 
me, my pen drags painfully along, and if my first 
necessity were not to pour into thy bosom, all the 
feelings which oppress me, alarmed at the greatness 


13 6 

of the task, I should remain silent, overwhelmed 
beneath its power, and feeling too much to be able 
to think. 


137 


LETTER XXX. 

feLARA. TO FREDERICK. 

No, 1 will not see you ; too much presumption 
has lost me, a bitter experience lias taught me, that 
I must no longer dare to confide in myself. I 
write to you, because I have a great deal to say, 
and because in short, there must be an end to the 
dreadful state in which we are. 

I ought to begin, by commanding you to write 
to me no more, for these tender letters, in spite of 
myself, I press them to my lips, I lay them to my 

heart, they breathe poison Frederick, I love 

you, and have never loved but you ; the image of 
your happiness, that happiness which you asJv of 
me, and which I could give, agitates my senses, 
and disturbs my reason ; to bestow it, I should 
count as nothing, life, honour, all, even to my fu- 
ture destiny : to make you happy, and die, would 
be all for Clara, she would have lived long enough ; 
but to purchase your happiness b} r perfidy ; Fretje- 


133 


lick, you would not take it at such a price 

Rash youth, you wish, Clara to be yours, yours 
alone! Is she then at liberty to bestow herself? 
Does she belong to herself ? If those eyes ; are look 
on that heaven which we outrage, thou wilt there 
see the oaths she has taken, it is there they are register- 
ed ! And who would you, that she should betray ? 
her husband, and your benefactor, he who has ta- 
ken you to his bosom, who cherishes and loves you ; 
he whose confidence has placed in our hands, the 
sacred deposite of his honour. An assassin would 
deprive him only of life, and you, as the reward of 
his kindness, you would sully his asylum, seduce 
his wife, and substitute treachery and adultery, for 
the candour and virtue which hitherto reigned here, 
but which you have banished. Dare to examine 
yourself, Frederick, and say what a monster could do 
more ? What ? And is your heart deaf to the voice 
which cries to you, that you violate hospitality and 
gratitude ? Dare you look in the face of the venera- 
ble man, whom, you ought to shudder at calling 
father ? Can your hands press his, and thorns not 
wound them ? In short, did you feel nothing, when 


139 


yesterday you saw his eyes bedewed with tears ?. , 

t 

Ah ! why could I not have compensated them with 
my blood ; you were agitated, 1 was pale and 
trembling ; he saw all, he knows every thing, it is 
all over, and the innocent bears the punishment 
due to the guilty. Wretched Clara ! was it then 
to imbitter his life, that you vowed to consecrate 
3 r our days to him ? Perfidious woman ! does it be- 
fit you to accuse another, when you are yourself 
guilty ? Frederick, you were weak, but I am 
criminal ; it seems as if all nature cries out against, 
and reproves me ; I neither dare to look at hea- 
ven, nor at you, nor at my husband, nor myself. 
If I would embrace my children, I blush to press 
them to a heart, from whence innocence is banish- 
ed ; the objects most dear to me, are those which 
I repulse with the greatest horror.. . .Thyself Fred- 
erick, it is because I love thee, that thou a'rt odious 
to me ; it is because I have no longer strength to 
resist thee, that thy presence kills me : and my love 
only appears to me a crime, because I burn to yield 
to it. O Frederick ! go hence, if not from duty, 
let it be from compassion ; the sight of thee is a re- 


140 


proach to me, the torment df which I cannot sup- 
port ; if my life, if virtue is dear to thee, fly with- 
out delay ; whatever may be thy resolutions, what* 
ever might be the honour which sustains them, 
they will not resist opportunity and passion ; re- 
member, Frederick, that an instant may make thee 
the basest of men, and cause me to die dishonour- 
ed, and that, if after having reflected on the horri- 
ble abyss that awaits ns, it were necessary to repeat 
to thee again, to fly, thou wouldst be so vile in my 
eyes, that I should no longer fear thee. 

I repeat to you, I am sure that my husband has j 
divined ail, and therefore unhappily, I have no lor)* | 
ger the suspicions to apprehend, that your depar- 
ture might occasion. Besides, you know, Eliza’s 
affairs become every day more and more intricate;, * 
and render an assistant absolutely indispensible to 
Feer : Frederick, be useful to my f* 'end, go and me- • 
rit from her, pardon for the woes you have ocea,- * 
sioned me ; you will find in this cherished woman, 
another Clara, but without her weaknesses, and 
without her errors. Shew yourself such to her eyes. 


141 


as that she may say, there was only Eliza, or an an- 
gel, capable of resisting you ; may your virtues ob- 
tain my pardon, and your labours restore me my 
friend ; may it be you, to whom I may owe her 
return here, so that every hour, every minute I en- 
joy her society, may be a benefit which I owe you, 
and that I may find*jn you the source of my felici- 
ty. Frederick, it depends on you, for me to exult 
in the tenderness, which I feel, and which I in- 
spire ; elevate yourself by it, above yourself ; may 
it attach you more firmly to every principle of ho- 
nour and virtue, that I may fix my eyes on you, 
whenever I think of perfection. In short, in becom- 
ing the greatest, and the best of men, compel my 
conscience to be silent, that it may suffer my heart 
to love you without remorse. Oh ! Frederick, if 
it is true that T am dear to you, learn from me so 
to cherish our love, that it may be never sullied, by 
any thing base or contemptible. If you are every 
thing to me, my universe, my felicity, the divinity 
whom I adore ; if all nature no longer presents me 
any object but thy image ; if it is for thee alone 

hat'I live, for thee alone that I respire ; if this ef- 

i I 


142 


fusion of my heart which I can no longer restrain, 
only shews thee a small portion of the sentiment 
which misleads me, I am not guilty. Could I pre- 
vent its taking rise ? Have I power to extinguish 
it ? Does it depend on me to destroy that which 
a superior power has kindled in my bosom ? But 
because I cannot feel these sentiments for my hus- 
band, does it follow thence, that I should not pre- 
serve the faith I have plighted him ? Dare you say 
it, Frederick, dare you desire it ? The idea of Cla- 
ra become an object of opprobrium, does it not 
freeze the current of thy blood, and does not thy 
love require esteem more than enjoyment ? No, 
no... I know that soul well which has bestowed itself 
on me, it is because I have known, that 1 have 
adored it. I am persuaded that there is no sacrifice 
beyond your courage, and when I shall have re- 
minded you, that honour exacts that you should 
go, and that Clara’s peace requires it, Frederick 
will not hesitate. 


LETTER XXXI, 

FREDERICK TO CLAEA. 

I have read your letter, and reality, cruel reality, 
has destroyed the enchanting illusions with which 
I had lulled myself ; the tortures of hell are in my 
heart, the abyss of despair yawns before me, Clara 
commands me to precipitate myself into it, I go. 

This sacrifice which virtue alone, could never 
have forced me to make, and which only you could 
Ifave obtained from me, this sacrifice to which no 
other can be compared, since there is but one Cla- 
ra in the universe, and but one heart like mine to 
adore her ; this sacrifice of which I cannot even 
myself measure the extent, whatever may be the ills 
it causes me, I swear to you, oh ! my Clara ! ne- 
ver to attempt the life which is consecrated to thee, 
which is thine ; but if anguish, more potent than 
fortitude, dries up the sources of my life, and forces 

me to sink beneath the weight of thy absence, pro* 

I 2 


144 


mise me, Clara., to pardon my death, and not to de* 
test my memory. Be assured that the wretched 
being who adores you, would have preferred obey* 
jng you, in devoting himself to the rriost endless 
and unheard of torments, to sinking into the peace 
of the grave, which you refuse him. 


i 


145 


LETTER XXXII. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Eliza, lie quits me to-morrow, and it is to you I 
fend him ; in casting him upon your friendly bo- 
som, I do not entirely lose him, and in my Eliza, 
he will find sympathy and consolation. Soothe his 
anguish, preserve his life, and if it is possible, do 
yet more, tear me from his heart. Eliza, Eliza, 
let not the object of my tenderness, be that of your 
aversion ; why should you despise him, whilst you 
yet esteem me ? Why hate him, whilst you still 
love me ? Why should your injustice, rather ac- 
cuse him than me ? If he has disturbed my peace, 
have I not embittered his repose ? Are we not 
equally culpable ? What do I say, am not I much 
more so ? Does his passion surpass mine ? Ami 
not secretly devoured by the same desires ? He 
aspired at the possession of Clara ; ha! has she not 
in her heart given herself to him a thousand times ? 
In short, with what can you reproach him, of 
which I am innocent ? Our fault is equal Eliza, 
i 3 


but our duties were not so : I was a wife, and a 
mother, be was without ties ; I knew the world, 
he was inexperienced ; my fate was fixed, my heart 
engaged ; he in the morning of Life, in the full effer- 
vescence of the passions, at nineteen is placed in a 
delightful solitude, beside a woman who lavishes 
on him the lenderest friendship, beside a female 
young and not insensible, and who perhaps preced- 
ed him in a guilty passion. I was a wife, and a 
mother, Eliza, and neither what I owed to my 
husband, nor my children, neither the respect I 
owed myself, nor the most sacred duties, nothing 
restrained me ; I saw Frederick, and forgot them 
all. When the most solemn engagements did not 
preserve me from error, can you accuse him of 
crime for having fallen into it ? When you consi- 
der me, more unfortunate than guilty, should not 
the miserable creature, who was called here to be 
a victim, and who tears himself away with an ex- 
cess of fortitude, of which I perhaps, should not be 
capable, become the object of your tenderest indul- 
gence, and liveliest pity ? Oh ! my Eliza ; receive 
him into thy basom ; let thy hand dry up his tears ; 


147 


remember that at nineteen he has known of the pas- 
sions, only the torment they inflict, and the void they 
leave behind them ; remember, that overwhelmed 
by this stroke, he would have terminated his exist- 
ence, if he had not trembled for mine. Remem- 
ber, Eliza, that you owe him my life you owe 

him perhaps more : he respected me, when I no 
longer respected myself ; he knew how to restrain 
his transports when I did not blush to yield to mine ; 
in short, if he were not the noblest of men, your 
friend would, perhaps, now be the vilest of crea- 
tures. 


/ 


i 4 


14S 


LETTER XXXIII. 

CLARA TO ELIZA . 

Inexplicable movements of the human heart! 
he is gone Eliza, and I did not shed a tear ; he is 
gone, and it seems as if his departure, had given 
me new life ; I feel myself under the influence of 
an unknown power, which obliges me to continual 
motion ; I cannot stay in one place, nor remain 
silent, nor sleep ; repose is impossible to me, I feel 
myself nearer even to gaiety than to calmpess. I 
laughed, joked with my husband, my spirits were 
singular ly high ; I felt I don’t know how, I no 
longer knew myself. If you could see, how far I 
am from being melancholy ; but neither do I fed 
that sweet and peaceful satisfaction, which arises 
from the consciousness of having performed a duty, 
but something disordered and consuming, which 
would resemble a fever, if otherwise I were not in 
perfect health. Would you believe that I have no 
anxiety to hear of him, and that I am as indiffer- 
ent to what regards him, as to the rest of the world ? 


149 

-I- assure you, my Eliza, bis .departure has done me 
'the utmost good, I believe myself absolutely „ cure 

ed Was >t not this morning lie-left us ? I do 

'longer know how time goes : it seems as if: all that 
Las passed in my soul since yesterday, could not 
Lave taken place in so short a time : . . . .Yet it. is 
very true, it was this morning, Frederick torebim- 
selffrom hence; I have counted only twelve Hours 
since he went ; why then has the clock assumed so 
mournful a soumj r Every time it strikes, I feel an 
involuntary tremor, ...Poor Frederick ! each mo- 
ment removes thee further from me ; each instant, 
as it flies, urges towards the past, that period in 
which I yet beheld thee ; time dissipates, it con- 
sumes it : it is now onty a fugitive shadow, which 
1 can no longer realise, and the hours of felicity 
which I passed with thee, are already swallowed up 
in void. Overwhelming truth ! Days will succeed 
each other ; general order will not be interrupted] 
and yet thou wilt be far from hence. Light will 
return without thee, and my sad eyes, open on crea- 
tion, .will no longer see the being who is to me 
the universe. What a desert, my Eliza! Hose 


i o 


150 


myself in a shoreless immensity ; I am oppressed by 
the tediousness of life, it is in vain that I struggle 
to escape from myself, I sink beneath the weight of 
an hour, and to sharpen my woe, thought, like a 
devouring vulture, intrudes on me, those which are 
still in reserve. ...... .but why do I tell you alt 

this ? My purpose was different ; I wanted to 
apeak to you of his departure ; what then arrests 
me ? When I would fix my thoughts upon this 
subject, a confused instinct repulses it ; it seems, 
when night surrounds me, and sleep weighs on the 
universe, that perhaps too, his absence, is but a 
dream but no, I can no longer deceive my- 

self, it is too true, Frederick is gone ; my petrified 
fingers, remained without motion in his ; my eyes 
had not a tear to give him, nor my mouth a word 

to pronounce to him I saw his shadow on 

the wainscot appear, and efface itself forever ; I 
heard the threshold of the door resound with his 
last steps, and the noise of the carriage which bore 
him away, by degrees lose itself in vacancy. . . . . * 
My Eliza, I was obliged to suspend writing my let- 
ter ; I suffered from a strange disorder, it is the on- 


J y one that continues, and without doubt, I shall 
recover from it also. I feel an insupportable op- 
pression, my heart swells, I have not room to re- 
spire, and air becomes immediately requisite ; I 1 
went into the garden, already the coolness of night 
had refreshed me, when I saw a light in M. 
d’Albe’s chamber. I even thought I perceived 
him through the window, and in the fear that he 
would attribute to Frederick’s departure, the cause 
which disturbed my repose, I returned immediately * 
to the house ; but, alas ! my Eliza, I am almos t 
certain,' that be not only saw me, but that he knows , 
all that passes in my heart. And yet I had hoped 
to destroy all suspicion in speaking first of 'Frede- 
rick’s going away, and by an exertion to which his 
interest alone could have made me equal, I did it 
without confusion or embarrassment. From the 
first word I thought I perceived a slight expression 
of joy in his eyes ; however he gravely asked me, , 
what motives induced me to approve of this pro- 
ject ; I answered that your affairs required assist- 
ance, and' this being a time of vacation in the ma- 
nufactory, I thought it was that in which Frederick 


155 


might most conveniently absent himself ; that for 
my part 1 ardently wished him to go and aid you, 
that you might be the sooner restored to us. Fiede- 
rick was present when I began to speak, but he did 
not say a word ; pale and with downcast eyes, he 
waited M. d’Albe’s reply ; my husband looking 
steadily at us both, answered : Why should not I 
go instead of Frederick ? I understand your friend’s 
concerns better than he does, whilst on the contra- 
ry he can perfectly well attend to mine ; besides, 
he directs Adolphus’ studies with a zeal which 
pleases me infinitely, and I have been more than 
once affected, in seeing him exercise a patience 
with the child, which proves the warmth of his af- 
fection towards his father ...... These words were 

like a thunder-bolt to Frederick ; it is dreadful to 
receive praises from the mouth of a friend whom 
we betray, and expressions of esteem which the 
heart disclaims, make us feel more despicable, than 
even the acknowledgment that we have ceased to 
merit them. We all remained silent ; my husband 
expecting an answer, without receiving it, ques- 
tioned Frederick .... What do you decide on, my 


friend, said he ; is it for you to stay ; is it for me 

logo? Frederick precipitated himself at his 

feet, and bathed them with his tears : I will go, 
cried he, in an energetic, and agonised voice, I 
will go, my Father, and at least for once I shall be 
worthy of you ! M. d’Albe without appearing to 
understand 'these last words, nor ask an explanation 
of them, tenderly raised him, and pressing him in 
his arms : go, my son, said he ; do not forget 
your father, serve the cause of virtue with all your 
courage, and return here only when the object of 
your journey is accomplished. Clara, added he, 
turning towards me, receive his adieus, and the 
promise I make in his name, never to forget the 
wife of his father, the dignified mother and friend, 

to whom affection and respect alike attach him, 

'■* 4 ' 

these are the traits which will engrave you on his 
soul ; the image of your beauty, may efface itself 
from his memory, but that of your virtues, will 
dwell in it forever. My son, continued he, I take 
upon myself the charge of speaking to you of your 
friends ; it will be a source of pleasure and amuse* 
inent to me, which I reserve for myself alone. , f , 


3 54 


these words* Eliza, were a prohibition, I too well 
understand it : When I separate myself from 
Frederick, no one has a right to question my cour- 
age. Ah ! without doubt, this inconceivable effort 
uplifts me from my weakness, and the more irresisti- 
ble was the inclination, the more glorious is the tri- 
umph ! No, no, my friend, if the heart of Clara was 
too tender, to be inaccessible to a culpable passion f 
it is perhaps too great to be suspected of a baseness. . 
Why did M. d’Albe appear to be afraid of leaving 
me alone with Frederick, during the last moments 
of his stay ? Did he think that I should not know 
how to make the sacrifice complete ? Did he not 
see me look with a dry eye at the preparations for 
his departure ? Has my firmness since forsaken me ? 
In short, Eliza, would you believe it, I did not feel 
the want of solitude, nor did I leave M. d’Albe the 
whole day ; I supported the conversation with an 
ease, a vivacity, and a volubility, which is unusual 
with me ; I spoke of Frederick as of any other per- 
son ; I played with my children, and all this, Eli- 
za, without effort ; there is only a little confusion 
in my ideas, and I feel that I often speak without 


155 


. ejection. I fear that M. d’Albe thought my con- 
duct was constrained, for he did not cease to look at 
me with sadness and solicitude ; in the evening he 
put his hand upon my forehead, and finding it 
burning : — You are not well, Clara, said he, I 
even think you have fever ; go and repose yourself 
my child. In truth, said 1, I believe I do want 
sleep. But having caught the glass as I pronounce 
ed these words, and perceiving that the uncommon 
I fire of my eyes contradicted what I had just said, 
and trembling lest M. d’Albe should suspect, that 
! I Said what was untrue, for the purpose of escaping 
! from him, I seated myself again. I prefer passing 
the night here, said I, I feel well only when I am 
beside you. Clara, resumed he, what you now 
say, may be truer than you yourself imagine ; I 
know you well, my child, and I know that there is 
no peace, and consequently no happiness for you, 
out of the path of innocence. What do you mean, 
cried I ? Clara, replied he, you understand me, 
and I have divined you ; let it content you to know 
I am satisfied with you, question me no further 3 ' 
present my friend retire, and if possible, cairn 


U6 


the excessive agitation of your spirits. Then, with- 
out adding a word, or embracing me, he left the 
room. I remained alone : what a void ! what si- 
lence ! Fancy every moment presented mournful 
phantoms to my view ; every object seemed a ghost, 
every sound a cry of death ; I could not sleep, nor 
think, nor breathe ; I wandered through the house 
to escape from myself; not able to succeed, I took 
up the pen to write to you ; this letter will at least 
go where he is, his eyes will see the paper which 
these hands have touched, he will think that Clara 
will have traced his name, this will be a tie, this 
the last thread which will attach us to life and hap- 
piness. . . .But alas ! does not heaven command us 
to break them all ? And this secret pleasure, is it 
not the last link, that unites me to my weakness ? 
Ah ! must then my barbarous hands annihilate this 
also ! must I then cease to think of him, and live a 
stranger to all that gives life ? T)h ! my Eliza ! 
when duty binds me to the earth, and commands 
me to forget Frederick, why cannot I forget also, 
that k is possible to die ? 


157 


LETTER XXXIV; 

ELIZA TO M. D’ALBE. 

My friend. In uniting herself to you, deprived me 
6f the right of directing her ; I may offer you iny 
advice, but I ought to respect your wishes : you 
i command me to conceal the state of Frederick’s 
mind from her, I will obey you. However, my 
cousin, if there are disadvantages attending the 
truth, there are still more in dissimulation ; Cla- 
ra’s example is a proof of this : it teaches us, that 
whoever adopts wrong means, to accomplish a right 
end, 'becomes sooner or later their victim. If from 
the first instant, she had avowed to you Frederick’s 
passion, this unfortunate creature might have been 
saved from his cruel destiny ; my virtuous friend 
would have been free from all weakness, and you 
would not yourself have been tortured with the ago- 
ny of a doubt ; and yet where were there ever yet, 
more plausible, more delicate, or stronger motives 
than her’s for dissimulation ? the happiness of your 
whole life, seemed to her to be risked by this con- 


Ib3 


fession. What other earthly interest, could have in- 
duced her to sacrifice truth ? Who will ever know 
how to estimate what it cost her to deceive you ?. . 
Ah ! to dissemble, she required all the intrepedity 
of virtue* 

Myself, when she confided me her reasons, I ap- 
proved them ; I believed she would have had time 
and fortitude, to have sent away Frederick, before 
you could have suspected the passion, with which 
he burned. I yet hoped that Clara’s only and con- 
stant wish, that of never having been to you during 
her life, but a source of happiness, would Have been 
accomplished ... * A moment has destroyed all ... * 
The words escaped from my friend in the delirium, 
of a fever, awakened your suspicions, the condition 
of Frederick confirmed them, you were even more 
wretched than you should have been, because you 
thought you saw in the excessive anguish of Clara, | 
the proof of her ignominy. Her caresses very soon 
reassured you ; you knew your wife too well to 
doubt, that she would have repulsed the embraces 
of her husband, if she had not been worthy 


159 


throw herself ori his bosom. I approve of your 
delicacy in not assisting her in the sacrifice she 
wished to make, in order that having alone the me- 
rit of it, it might reconcile her to herself. But I 
am far from dreading as you do, the despair of Cla- 
ra, this state requires strength, and she will direct all 
hers to the profit of virtue. In representing Frede- 
rick to her in his real state I should perhaps give more 
poignancy to her grief ; but in souls like hers, great 
; excitements are necessary to support great resolutions. 
My cousin, I hazard nothing in shewing you Cla- 
ra such as she is ; she can never lose from being 
I thoroughly known, and there is no weakness for 

I which her angelic virtues would not compensate.. . 

I will then venture to tell you, that if I suffer her 
to suppose she has formed a mistaken opinion of 
Frederick ; that not only he can so easily forget her 
but that another is on the point of replacing her in 
his affections ; if I represent him, as faithless and 
volatile, whom she has believed elevated aud noble; 
the contempt which she will conceive for him may 
deprive her of life, but it is a sense of duty alone 
which can conquer her love. Confide in herself 

K 1 


1 GO 


to accomplish her cure, no one desires it more ar- 
dently ; if* she does not succeed, no one could ; 
and at least if every method fails, reserve to your- 
self the consolation of having employed none that 
were unworthy of her. 

I do not write to her to day ; I wait your reply, 
before I speak to her of Frederick, 

At length, then, I know this astonishing young 
man : never did Clara represent him such as he ap- 
pears to me ; he has the head of Antinous^on the 
form of Apollo, and the beauty of his countenance ) 
is not even effaced, by the dark despair which is 
imprinted on every feature ; he does not speak ; he 
hardly answers me when I address him ; in short, i 
nothing but the name of Clara, can awaken hiuv ' 
from his mournful silence. 

1 

The only excuse for this young man, my cousin, 1 
is in the excess of his passion : did it not tyrannize , 
over him to such a degree, as to suffer him to have no 
thought, no reflection, no idea, but such as are cen- 


\ tered in Clara, if the emotions with which she in- 
f spires him, did not extinguish even to the sen ti- 
ls merits which he owes you, if in loving her,- he . 
could recal you to his remembrance, he, would no 
longer be an unfortunate creature whom we should 
commiserate, but a monster who would deserve 
I execration. You are wrong I think,* in not per* 

I milting Clara to write to him ; at .present, he can 
listen only to her ; she alone forced him to leave 
her, she alone can penetrate his soul, recall him to 
a sense of his duties, and make him blush for the 
i dreadful crime he has committed. My friend, I do 
not hesitate to declare to you, that preventing all 
communication between them, you insulate them 
upon the earth ; no voice can either save or heal 
them, for no other can reach their hearts. Believe 
me, in a passion, such as Clara and Frederick are 
consumed with, other means are necessary, than 
those that succeed with the world in general ; per- 
mit them to deify their love, in rendering it the 
basis of every virtue ; by degrees truth will destroy 
illusion, and substitue itself for its shadow, 

iC 2 


10'2 


Frederick arrived yesterday, I had company with 
me, and made my escape unperceived, to go and 
receive him : I did not wish him to appear, but 
desired that he would keej) his chamber, because I 
know, that when the mind is a prey to violent pas-? 
sions, involuntarily gestures, and exclamations 
can with difficulty be restrained ; but he rejected ail 
my cares. No, said he, in the centre of a crowd as 
here, I am alone ; where she is not, all is solitude 
and desolation for me. He accompanied me down 
stairs ; there was something sinister in his look, 
and I could not help shuddering as I saw him take 
his pistols from the carriage ; he guessed my feel- 
ings ; fear nothing, said he with a ghastly smile, I 
gave her my word I would not use them. The 
rest of the evening he appeared tolerably composed ; 
however, I kept him constantly in my sight : sud- 
denly I perceived that he turned pale., his head 
sunk, and in a moment he was covered with blood • 
%ome arteries in his breast, strained by the violence 
of his anguish, had burst. I immediately sent for 
assistance, and according to the opinion which has 
been given me, it is possible that this crisis of na- 


163 


ture, in weakening him very much, may contri- 
bute to save his life ; I am sure of him, if! can 
only accomplish touching the chords of his heart ; 
but how can I hope for this, if a letter from Clara, 
does not come and cause his tears to flow ? For he 
can no longer shed them but for her. 

My friend, in opening my heart to you on this 
subject, I have given you the highest proof of es- 
teem which it is possible to confer : such truths 
could be understood only by a man, so great as 
to elevate himself above his own passions, in order 
to enable him to judge of those of others ; so just, 
as that the liveliest personal interest, should not pre- 
judice his judgement ; so good, as that the injuries 
he endures, should not harden his heart against 
those .by whom he suffers them, and it belonged 
only to the husband of Clara to be such a man, 

k 3 


164 


LETTER XXXV. 

ELIZA TO M. DALBE, 

I lament your error, but I submit to it ; may 
you never repent having so little known bow to 
appreciate your wife, to have supposed that common 
measures could succeed with her. 1 have felt the 
utmost repugnance in deceiving my friend ; it 
is the first time in my life 1 ever attempted it ; 
my heart tells me it is wrong, and its dictates 
never yet misled me. Believe, nevertheless, that 
I feel a]l the strength of your reasoning, and 
that 1 am well aware how dangerous it would he 
to suffer Clara to believe, that to love Frede- 
rick, is to love virtue. This pernicious coloring, 
with which passion embellishes vice, is assuredly 
the most subtle of poisons, because it insinuates it? 
self into the most upright souls, gains the sensibili- 
ty on its side, and interests it in all its wanderings. 
As well as yourself, I condemn the influence of 
imagination, which, with the assistance of ingenious 
and delicate sophisms, tempts tke mind to view 


165 


with a lenient eye, that which robbed of this veil,' 
would make it shrink with horror ; bat this unfor- 
tunate being, has felt the full extent of her fault, and 
her heart groans, crushed beneath its weight. Ah ! 
what can we say to her with which she is not al- s 
ready penetrated ? Who can think her more guilty 
than she views herself? oppressed by your goodness 
and your indulgence, tormented with the dreadful 
remorse of having embittered your days, she sees 
with horror ali thatpasses in her soul, and trembles 
lest you should discover it also ; and do not believe 
that this horror is caused bv the fear of your indm- 
nation ; no, she dreads only your sorrow. If she 
thought only of herself, she would speak ; it would 
be sweet to her to be ounisbed as she deserves, and 
the reproaches of an outraged husband, would de- 
grade her less in her own eyes, than an indulgence 
of which she feels herself unworthy ; but she be- 
lieves the only way to obliterate her weakness, is in 
expiating it, in bearing alone, all the weight of the 
evil she has occasioned you. 


H 4 


16 Q 


Her last letter tells me, that she begins strongly 
to suspect that you are informed of all which passes 
in her heart ; but she will break silence only when 
she is sure of it. Believe me, my friend, antici- 
pate her confidence ; raise her sinking courage ; 
join to the delicacy which induced you to wait for 
Frederick’s departure until she had herself decided 
it, the generosity which does not fear, shewing him 
as interesting as he is ; let her behold you, in short, 
so great, so magnanimous, that it may be upon 
you she may be compelled to fix her admiration, 
and that she may find in this admiration, the talisman 
which shall guide her back to virtue ; in short, if the 
councils of my ardent friendship, can shake your 
resolution, the only artifice you will permit your- 
self to use with Clara, will be to tell her, that I had 
suggested to you the idea of deceiving her ; but 
that the opinion you have formed of her, induced 
you to reject all low and little measures, that you. 
judge her worthy of hearing every thing as you are 
of knowing all . 


167 


' In elevating her thus, you oblige her not to fail 
i without degrading herself ; and in confiding all 
your thoughts to her, you make her feel that she 
| owes you all hers ; and that she may communicate 
them to you without blushing, she will accomplish 
rendering them pure. O my cousin, when our in- 
terests are alike, why are our opinions so dis- 
similar, and why do we not pursfre the same means, 
when our object is the same ? 

You will find enclosed in this, the letter which I 
write to Clara, and in which I speak to her of 
Frederick in colors so foreign from the truth . . . « 
Since his accident he has not left his bed ; on the 
'east movement the blood vessel opens : a slight 
sensation produces this effect. Yesterday I was be- 
side his bed, when they brought me letters, he dis- 
tinguished Clara’s hand. At the sight of it he ut- 
tered a piercing cry, darted forward and seized the 
paper ; he pressed it to his heart, and in a moment 
he was covered with blood and tears. A long and 
alarming weakness succeeded this violent agitation. 

I wanted to profit by this moment, to take away lh£ 

K 5 


168 


fatal letter ; but by a kind of convulsive movement, 
he kept it clasped to his breast ; I then saw it was 
necessary to wait until he regained his senses, be- 
fore I could recover it ; as soon as he came to him- 
self, his first thought was to return it to mein 
silence, without asking a single question, but hold- 
ing my hand as if it were impossible to part with it, 

and with such a look ! My friend, who has 

not seen Frederick, can have no idea of expression ; 
every feature speaks, his eyes are alive with elo- 
quence, if virtue herself descended from Heaven, 
she could not see him without emotion ; and it was 
beside a lovely and tender woman, that you placed 
him ; in the midst of nature, where every thing 
speaks to the heart, the imagination and the senses. 
It is there that you leave them tete-a-tete, without 
the means of escaping from themselves. When 
every thing tended to draw them together, could 
they remain there with impunity ? it would have 
been great to have been able to do so, it was mad- 
ness to risk it, and you should have remembered 
that all strength employed to combat nature, soon- 
er or later yields. In such a situation, it was only 


169 


a woman superior to her sex, it was only a Clara, 
in short, who would have preserved her purity, but 
an angel alone, oh! my imprudent friend, could 
have remained insensible. 

In entreating you to have no reserves with Clara, 
I paint to you only the advantages which would 
result from candor : but who can tell the baleful 
consequences of dissimulation, should they discov- 
er it ? And this will infallibly happen whatever 
pains we may take to deceive them. Beware of 
placing truth on their side, and of drawing them 
together, in making them feel that beyond them- 
selves all is deceit ; beware in short, of committing 
an error towards Clara, it is not that she would take 
advantage of it, she has not the right, nor can she 
have the inclination ; but it is only in exciting in 
her soul the liveliest gratitude, and the strongest 
admiration, that you can lead her back to yourself, 
and conquer the ascendancy which passion has ac* 
quired over her. 




170 


LETTER XXXVI. 

CLARA TO EX.IZ A . 

The whole universe might have told me so, I 

would have contradicted the universe ! but thou 

* 

my Eliza, thou wouldst no: deceive me, and how- 
ever changed I may be, I have not yet learned to 

suspect my friend Frederick is not what he 

appeared to me. Ardent and impetuous in his 
sensations, he is light and inconstant in his senti- 
ments ! his imagination may be captivated, his 
senses excited, but to touch his heart is impossible. 
It is thus that you have judged, it is thus that you 
have seen him ; it is Eliza who says it, and it is 
Frederick of whom she speaks ! Oh ! mortal ago- 
ny, if this profound, this indissoluble sentiment, 
which tells me he is virtuous and faithful, that I 
am deceived and he calumniated ; if this sentiment 
which has become the sole substance of my soul is 
real, it is then thou who betrayest me ? Thou, 
Eliza ! what horrible blasphemy ! thou, my sister, 
my companion, my friend, thou couldst cease to 


IT 1 


be sincere with me ? No, no, in vain I force my- 
ielf to think it, in vain would I justify Frederick 
even at the expence of friendship. Outraged vir- 
tue stifles the voice of my heart, and forbids me to 
suspect my Eliza. These terrible words which you 
have spoken, have resounded through my whole be- 
ing ; every part of my frame is a prey to anguish, 
every moment seems to multiply as if to increase 
my suffering. I know not where to bear my foot- 
steps, where to lay my head ; these dreadful words 
pursue me, they are every where ; they have with- 
ered my heart, and destroyed all my hopes. Alas ! 
for some days, my passion no longer alarmed me ; 
to save Frederick I felt courage to overcome it. . , , 
Already in a distant perspective, I perceived tran- 
quillity succeeding the storm ; already I formed se- 
cret plans for an union, which, in rendering him 
happy, would have permitted his re-union with us ; 
our pure and heavenly friendship embellished the 
days of my husband, and our tender cares effaced 
the transient pain we had occasioned him. How 
much courage I felt to accomplish such an end !. , 
No effort would have been too great to attain it. 


each one would have approached me to Frederick ! 
But when he has ceased to love, when Frederick is 
false and frivolous, what have I to overcome ? My 
tenderness, has x it not vanished with the illu- 
sion which produced it? And what should yet re- 
main ot it, but the profound and sorrowful repent- 
ance of having ever been alive to it ? Oh ! my 
Eliza* thou canst not know how dreadful it is to be 
an object of self-contempt ! when I saw in Frede- 
rick the most perfect of creatures, I could yet es- 
teem a soul which had erred only for him ; but 
when I reflect for whom I was guilty, for whom I 
injured my husband, I feel n^self so contemptible, 
that I cease to hope ever returning to virtue. 

Eliza, I renounce Frederick, I renounce thee, 
and the whole world ; write to me no more, I am 
no longer worthy of holding an intercourse with 
thee ; I will no longer bring a blush into thy cheek 
at the name of friend, which I here give thee for 
the last time ; leave me to myself ; the universe 
and all that inhabit it are no longer any thing for 
me ; mourn thy Clara, her existence has ceased. 


173 


LETTER XXX VIE 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Alas ! my Eliza, you were very prompt in obey~ 
ing me, and it cost you little to renounce your 
friend. Your silence tells me too well, that this 
apellation is no longer fit for me, and yet all un- 
worthy as I am of hearing it, my lacerated soul 
cleaves to it, nor can it yet resolve to part with it. 
It is true then Eliza, you also have ceased to love 
me ? The wretched Clara sees herself fade from the 
hearts of all those to whom sb t e was dear, and she 
will exhale her last sigh, without exciting a tear or 
a regret ! She who but lately was a happy mother, 
a prudent wife, honored, beloved, by all who sur- 
rounded her ; without a thought for which she 
should blush, satisfied with the past, tranquil about, 
the future, now, despised by her friend, casting 
down her humbled mein before her husband, 
not daring to support the looks of any one ; shame 
follows, it environs her ; it seems as if a dreadful 
line separated her from the rest of the w orld, and 


174 


placed itself between every being and herself. O 
torments 1 , which no pen can paint ! when 1 would 
fly from myself, when I would avert my thoughts 
from my own wretchedness, remorse like a tiger’s 
claw, buries itself in my heart, and tears open all 
its wounds ; yes, it is impossible not to yield to 
such bitter griefs, she who would have strength to 
support, could not feel them ; my blood freezes, ! 
my eyes close, and in the oppression which I feel, 

I know not how to invoke death ..... .but Eliza ; 

if my end expiates my fault, and that thy wisdom 
deigns to melt at the recollection of thy once loved 
Clara, remember my daughter, it is for her I im* 
pi ore thee ; let not the image of her who gave her 
life, rob her of thy affection ; take her to thy bo- 
som, and only speak to her of her mother, to tell 
her that her last sigh was a regret, that she cpuld 
not live for her sake ! 


Ho 


LETTER XXXVII L 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Forgive me, oli ! my sole consolation ! my 
friend, my refuge, forgive me, that I could have 
doubted of your tenderness ! I judged of you not 
as you are, but according to my deserts ; I thought 
you just in your serenity, as you appear to me at 
present, blind in your indulgence. No, my friend, 
no, she who has brought affliction into her family, 
and has implanted suspicion in the breast of her 
husband, no longer merits the name of virtuous, 
and you call me thus, only because you view me 
through the medium of your own heart. 

Notwithstanding your advice, I have not yet 
spoken with confidence to my husband ; I have 
wished it, and more than once have I led to the 
subject, but he always appears to avoid it ; doubt- 
less, he would blush to hear me ; I ought to 
I spare him the shame of such a confession, and I 
feel that his silence commands me to conquer my 


17 6 


malady without complaining. Eliza, you may be- 
lieve me, the reign of love is passed ; but the blow 
which it has levelled, has struck too violently upon 
my heart ; I shall never recover it ; these are sor- 
rows which time cannot wear out ; we may become 
resigned to those which emanate from heaven ; we 
may bow the head to the decrees of the eternal, and 
reproach is silenced when it should be addressed to 
the divinity. But here all tends to render my grief 
more corroding ; I can accuse no one, all the ills 
I suffer ebb back to my own heart, for it is there 
they had their source Yet I am calm ; agi- 

tation ceases, when all is lost. However, I see 
with pleasure, that M. d’iVble is happy at the spe- 
cies of tranquillity which he sees me enjoy. He 
availed himself of this state of my spirits to speak to 
me of the letter in which you announce to him 
Frederick’s unexpected union with Adelaide..,. 
Why did you make a mystery of this my Eliza ? If 
this charming girl has succeeded in attaching him, 
do you believe that it will afflict me, do you sup- 
pose that I could blame him ? No my friend, I 
think, on the contrary that Frederick has felt, when 


177 


attachment was a crime, inconstancy became a vir- 
tue, and he performs in forgetting me, a duty im- 
posed on him alike by honor and by gratitude ; I 
gave M. d’Albe to understand this, when he en- 
tered into the details which you had written him : 
I saw that he was astonished and delighted with my 
answer ; his approbation revives me, and the image 
of his happiness is so sweet to me, that I would still 
cheerfully fill up the measure of my days, if I did 
not feel my strength failing, and the cup of life fast 
retreating from my lips. 


Li 1 


178 


; LETTER XXXIX. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

No my friend, I am not ill, neither am 1 melan<* 
choly ; my days roll away, and are filled up as for- 
merly : externally I am almost the same, but the 
excessive weakness of my frame and of my spirits, 
the profound disgust which withers my soul, teaches 
me that there are sorrows which it is impossible to 
resist, Virtue was my first idol, love destroyed it ; 
love destroyed itself in its turn, and abandons me 
alone to the world : with it I must expire. Ah'! 
my Eliza, I suffer much less from the change which 
has taken place in Frederick, than that I should so 
wrongly have judged him. You cannot con- 
ceive to what an extent my confidence was placed 
in hirh : In short, shall I tell you ? For a moment 
I have thought that my husband and you had agreed 
io deceive me, anti that you joined in painting to 
me in false and odious colors, the unfortunate 
being whom my absence destroyed ; fancy repre- 
sented me, this miserable creature whom I had sent 


179 


to thee to repose his sorrows in thy bosom, deceived 
by thy false tears, and relying on thy truth, whilst 
thou betrayed him towards thy friend ; in short, 
my guilty passion shedding its venom, through 
thy letters, and the conversation of my husband, 
made me discover numerous traces of deceit. Eli- 
za, do you conceive what that passion must be, 
which could suffer me to suspect thee ? Ah ! with- 
out doubt, this is its greatest trespass ! 

x 

My friend, the blow which destroys me, is hav- 
ing been deceived in Frederick ; I thought I knew 
him so well. I felt as if my existence had begun 
with his, and as if our two souls blending together, 
were identified on every point ; we may console 
.ourselves for an error of the understanding, but not 
for a mistake of the heart : mine has too ill guided 
me, for me to dare to trust to it again, and I ought 
to perceive with uneasiness, even the emotions with 
which it yearns towards thee. Oh ! Frederick, 
my esteem for you was idolatry ; in obliging me 
to renounce it, you shake my opinion of virtue it- 
self; the world no longer appears to me but a vast 

h c 2 


ISO 


solitude, and the endearing ties which had support- 
ed me in it, but vain and insubstantial shadows, 
which elude my grasp. Eliza you may speak to 
me of Frederick ; Frederick is not he w hom I have 
loved ; as a pagan offers worship to the divinity 
whom he has created, I adored in Frederick the 
work of my imagination ; truth, or Eliza has rent 
aside the veil, Frederick is no longer any thing for 
me ; but as I can hear all with indifference, so I 
can remain ignorant of all without pain, and per- 
haps I ought to wish that you should observe si- 
lence with regard to him, in order that I may con- 
secrate my last thoughts, entirely to my husband 
and my children. 


181 


LETTER XL. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

I can no more. . .langour oppresses me, ennui de- 
vours me, and disgust embitters my existence ; I 
suffer, and for my sufferings I could not name a 
remedy ; the past and the future, truth or illusion, 
no longer present me any thing agreeable ; exist- 
ence fatigues me, I would fly from myself, nothing 
diverts me : pleasures have lost their zest, and du- 
ties their importance. I am easy no where : If I 
walk, weariness obliges me to sit down ; when I 
would take repose, agitation compels me to exer- 
tion. My heart has not room enough ; it suffo- 
cates, it palpitates violently ; when I would breathe, 
deep and heavy sighs escape from my breast. . . . 
.Where then is the verdure of the trees ? The birds 
sing no more, does the stream yet murmur ? . . . . 
where is the bloom of nature, where the zephyrs 
that wafted fragrance ? A burning fever rages 
through my veins, and consumes me ; rare and 

bitter tears suffuse my eyes, but do not soothe me ; 

L 3 


182 


what shall I do, where hear my sad and wearied 
footsteps ? I will wander slowly through the coun- 
try ; there chusing the most lonely spot, I will 
cull wild flowers, blasted like myself, and emblems 
of my sadness : I will mingle no green foliage with 
them; the verdure of nature has passed away, as 
hope has expired in my sad heart I Oh! God, 
how existence burthens me ! once friendship em- 
bellished it, my days were serene ; a voluptuous 
melancholy invited me to solitude, and I rejoiced 
in the beauty and tranquillity of nature ; my chil- 
dren ! you were then ever present to my thoughts ; 
I think of you now, only to be disturbed by your 
noise, and tormented by the necessity of watching 
over you. 1 would shut you from my sight, I 
would shut out the whole world, I would forget 

myself. With the returning day, I feel my 

woe redoubled. How endless is time when mea- 
sured by despair ! the sun rises ; it enlivens all na- 
ture and animates it with its rays ; I alone, am 
tired of its lustre, it is odious and exhausting to 
me ; like a fruit whose core an insect destroys, 
I an invisible ill, a corroding grief yet. 


183 


rapid and lively emotions often strike my senses ; I 
feel my whole frame shudder ; my eyes become 
fixed, and it is wiih the utmost difficulty I can 
move them. My confused and astonished soul, 
seeks in vain for the object it would find ; at length 
more agitated, but enfeebled by the impressions 
which I have received, I yield entirely, my head 
droops, I sink, and in my mournful dejection, I 
no longer contend with the ills that destroy me, 


T, 4 : 


LETTER XLI. 


ELIZA TO M. d’aLBE, 

Your letter has revived my hopes, my cousin, 

and I required it ; I should congratulate myself 

more upon the changes you have observed in Clara, 

if I did not fear, that deceived by your tenderness, 

you mistake the total debility of all the organs of 

life for tranquillity, and the death of the soul for re- 

. 

signation. 

I am not at all surprised at the conduct of Clara, 
which astonishes you ; in it I recognize the wo- 
man, whose every thought was a virtue, and every 
action a model. Her heart feels the want of com- 
pensating you, for that which she has involuntarily 
given to another, and she can be at peace with her- 
self, only in concecrating to you, the life and the 
strength which remain to her ; you are affected 
with her constant attentions towards you, and the 
expression of tenderness which animates them ; you 
are surprised at her active benevolence which extends ; 


185 


its cares to all around her. Are you ignorant that 
the soul of Clara was created in a day of jubilee, 
shat it escaped perfect from the hands of nature, 
and that its essence being goodness , it can cease to 
do good, only in ceasing to exist ? 

I shall not attempt to paint to you, the pain her 
letters give me ; I disclaim with horror the un- 
bounded confidence she has in my truth, which 
stifling even the voice of her heart, renders me re- 
sponsible for her life ; she reproaches herself as a 
erime , with having doubted her friend and hus- 
band, and this crime , it must be acknowledged, we 
have committed, because it is one to deceive a being 
like Clara ; her fault was involuntary, ours pre- 
meditated ; she views hers with horror, we coldly 
persist in ours. Animated by the sublimest mo- 
tive, she can resolve to silence truth. We! we 
have sullied it by pitiful artifices, without the cer- 
tainty of succeeding ; however, I do not reproach 
myself, and should even Clara’s life, be forfeited 
to the execution of your wishes, in submitting to 

them, in sacrificing her, to the slightest of yourin- 
l 5 


186 


clinations, I only do what she would have prescrib- 
ed to me, what she would herself have done with 
transport. 

Do not however suppose, that I would now re- 
commend changing your plan ; no, at present it 
must be completely followed up, and it is no lon- 
ger time to retract, another shock would exhaust 
her ; but do not suppose that I can persist in giv- 
ing her feigned details of the state of Frederick ; 
no, she having herself felt that reason urged our 
never mentioning his name, I shall preserve a pro- 
found silence on this subject. 

Since Frederick has been able to sit up, he has 
pressed me to give him a minute statement of my 
affairs ; I eagerly consented, hoping to divert his 
thoughts ; he quickly comprehended them, and 
pursues them with unceasing deligence ; but his 
industry cannot surprise us, it was Clara who re- 
quested him to undertake the task. 


187 


He yesterday received your letter, in which with- 
out speaking directly of your wife, you paint her in 
every page, as gay and tranquil. 1 know not what 
effect this intelligence has produced on him ; he 
did not speak of it to me. I observe only that his 
countenance is more gloomy, and his silence more 
continual : he concentrates all his sensations with- 
in himself ; nothing strikes him, nothing reaches 
his heart, nothing affects him. This morning 
whilst lie was employed in my affairs beside me, I 
look Clara’s picture out of my bosom, and placed 
it before him ; his first movement was to look at 
me with surprise, as if to ask me what I meant, and 
then reverting to the object which was before him, 
he contemplated it in silence for a long time ; at 
length returning it to me coldly ; it is not her, said 
he ,* he then remained silent, and returned to hi$ 
work. Several hours passed, without our exchang- 
ing words ; he speaks to me only o.f my concerns ; if I 
question him on any other subject than that of Cla- 
ra, he does not appear to hear me, or he answers 
me by a sign or a monosylab'e : I take all possi- 
ble precautions to avoid a conversation which might 


lead to an entire confidence, for I should not have 
fortitude to continue deceiving him. Every mo- 
ment pity tempts me to open my heart to him ; 
this inclination increases every day, and my cour- 
age is not armed against his anguish : I have how- 
ever, told him nothing yet ; but perhaps, a word 
from him is only wanting, a momentary overflow 
of compassion, to rob me of your secret. Ah ! 
my cousin ! pardon my weakness ; but to see a 
fellow-creature wretched, to know that a word 

/ 

would soothe him, and yet to remain silent, is an 
exertion to which I cannot hope to be equal .... 
Ought I even to desire it ? Should I stifle in my 
soul, that feeling which prompts us to soothe the 
woes of another ? Ah ! if it is a weakness, I know 
not what firmness is more laudable ! An hour ago 
I was with Frederick ; the cries of my child having 
obliged me to go out hastily, I left a letter on the 
mantle- piece, which I had just received from Cla- 
ra. l^he idea that Frederick might see this letter, 
made me tremble. And returning quick as light- 
ning, I found it in his hand Frederick, what 

have you done, cried I ! nothing but what she 










189 


would have permitted me, replied he ! You then 
have not read that letter, resumed I ! No, she 
would have despised me, said he, returning it. I 
would have praised his delicacy, his discretion ; he 
interrupted me. . ..No, Eliza, you are mistaken, I 
have no longer either delicacy or virtue ; 1 act, I 
feel, I exist, only through her, and possibly I 
should have read that paper, if the fear of displeas- 
ing her, had not prevented me. As he ended this 
phrase, he relapsed into his usual immobility ; what 
would I not give to see him agitated with lively* 
emotions, to hear him utter piercing cries, in short, 
to see him yield to the delirium of grief ! how much 
less alarming would it be, than the state in which 
he at present is ! concentrating within his own bo- 
som, all the furies of despair, they lacerate, they en- 
venom his heart, and infuse the germs of destruc- 
tion into his bosom. The unfortunate creature me- 
rits your pity, and whatever may have been his 
ingratitude towards you, his punishment exceeds 
and expiates his crime. 


190 


LETTER XLII. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Eliza, I believe that providence lias blessed my 
endeavours, and that he would not withdraw me 
from the world, until he had rendered me worthy 
of returning to himself; for some days a salutary 
calm has diffused itself through my veins, and I 
smile with satisfaction at my duties ; the sight of 
my husband no longer distresses me, and I partici- 
pate in the pleasure he feels in being beside me ; I 
see that he is grateful for all the tenderness I shew 
for him, and that he does justice to its sincerity. . . 
His indulgence encourages me, his praises elevate 
me, and I no longer feel myself contemptible, when 
I see that he esteems me ; but in proportion as my 
soul acquires strength, my body weakens. I should 
desire to live for my worthy husband ; this is the 
wish I address to heaven every day, this is the only 
expiation with which I could atone for my fault : 
but this hope I must renounce. Death is in my 
bosom, my Eliza, I feel it undermining my ex- 


101 


istence, and its slow and continued progress insen- 
sibly leads me to the grave. Oh ! my excellent 
friend ! weep not my fall, but the cause which oc- 
casions it ; had I been permitted to sacrifice my 
! life for thee, for my children, or my husband, death 
would have constituted my honor and my glory ; 
but to perish a victim to the perfidy of a man, to 
die by the hand of Frederick ! Oh ! Frede- 

rick, O remembrance, a thousand times too dear 1 
Alas ! that name was once for me the image of the 
noblest candor ; to that name was attached, every 
idea of great and good ; he aione, appeared to me 
exempt from the fatal contagion which falsehood 
has spread over the universe ; he alone presented 
me that model of perfection, which, in imagination, 
I had often contemplated, and it is from this pin- 
nacle to which love had raised him that he falls. . . 
Frederick, it is impossible so soon to forget such a 
passion as you pretended to be inspired with, 
you then but feigned ? The treachery of a com- 
mon being, appears only a common crime, but 
Frederick deceitful is a monster : the distance be- 
tween what thou art, and what thou seemed to be 


392 


is immeasurable, there is no crime so black as thine. | 
My greatest torment is much less in renouncing, 
than being compelled to despise thee, and thy base- 
ness was the only stroke which I could not sup- 
port. 

My friend, this letter is the last in which I shall 
speak to you of him ; henceforth my thoughts shall 
be directed towards more worthy objects ; the only 
means of obtaining the mercy of heaven, is in em- 
ploying the rest of my days in promoting the hap- 
piness of those who surround me ; I visit my hos- 
pital every day ; I see with pleasure, that my long 
absence has not interrupted the order which I had 
established in it ; I will depute to my Eliza, the 
care of continuing it ; it is from her that my Laura 
will learn to superintend it in her turn : may this 
cherished girl expand under thy guidance to every 
virtue, in which her mother was deficient ! Speak 
■to her of my faults, but above all, of my repent- 
ance ; tell her that if I had listened to thee, I 
should have lived in peace and honor, and should 
perhaps have reached thy excellence. May hey 


1&3 

lender cares, compensate her aged father, for all 
the ills I have occasioned him ; and to rccom- 
pence thee for all that she will owe thee, may she 

love thee as thy Clara loved thee! Adieu, 

my heart sickens at the thoughts of those I love ; 
it is at the moment of separation from objects so 
dear, that we feel how much they attach to life.. . 
Eliza, yoa will console my worthy husband, you 
will not leave him insulated on the earth, you will 
become his friend, as well as the mother of my chil- 
dren ; they will not lose by the exchange. 


194 


LETTER XLIII. 

CLARA TO ELIZA. 

Do not atHict yourself, my friend, the gentle 
peace which God diffuses over my last moments, is 
the guarantee of his clemency ; yet a few moments 
more, and my soul will wing its flight to eternity. 

In that immortal sanctuary, if there is an involun- 
tary sentiment at the remembrance of which I 
should blush, perhaps I shall have too bitterly ex- 
piated it on earth, to be punished for it in heaven. 
Each day, prostrate before majesty supreme, I ad- 
mire his greatness and I implore his bounty ; he 
encompasses with his beneficence, all who feel, 
all who suffer, all who breathe ; this is the mantle 
which the wretched should fold around their hearts 
.but when night has dropped her sable cur- 
tain, fancy paints to me the angel of eternity, with 
his arms outstretched towards me ; in these mo- [ 
ments of perfect calm, the soul bounds towards, 

(e another and a better world’* and holds converse 
with its God, whilst conscience, resuming its right. 


195 


weighs the past and foresees the future. It is 
then that casting a glance on the days swallow- 
ed up by time, we ask ourselves, not without 
dread, how they have been employed, and in 
taking a retrospect of life, we know the witnesses 
who will appear for or against us. What an awful 
reckoning ! who will dare to give this account 
without the most profound humility, without the 
keenest repentance for all the errors into which they 
have been led ! Oh ! Frederick how will you sup- 
port the tremendous moment ? Had you even, 
innocent of deceit, believed you felt all you expres- 
sed for me, remember, wretched youth, that to ab- 
solve you of ingratitade towards your Father, hea- 
ven itself must have illumined the flames, you have 
feigned and that these are never extinguished. And 
thou, my Eliza, forgive me, that the remembrance 
of Frederick yet mingles with my last thoughts; 
the absolute silence you maintain on this subject, 
sufficiently tells me that I should imitate it ; but 
before I leave this earth, which Frederick still inha- 
bits, ah ! let me address him a last adieu, let me 
say to him that I forgive him. If he yet retain 

M \ 


1 96 


any (races of resemblance to the being whom I so 
fondly loved, the idea of having occasioned my 
death, will accelerate his own, and perhaps the pe- 
riod which shall unite us in the realms of bliss, 
may not be very far distant. Ah ! if it is only 
there that I should again behold him ! am I guilty 
in sighing for that moment ? 


LETTER XLIV. 


ELIZA TO M. D’ALBE. 

It is then true, my friend declines, and you are 
alarmed at her condition ! these long and frequent 
faintings, are an alarming symptom, and an im- 
pediment to your wish of procuring her a change of 
air ? Ah ! certainly I will hasten to her, I will 
leave my two sons under Frederick’s care, this is a 
chain by which he will be confined here ; I dissem- 
ble my sorrow before him, because, could he sus- 
pect the motive of my journey, could he suspect 
that all you have told him of Clara was but to mis- 
lead him ; if he saw those dreadful words which 
you could not trace without shuddering, and that 
I read with despair, already the shadow of death , 
is cast over her features ; no human strength would 
detain him. 

No, my friend, no, I do not reproach you ; I 
do not even reproach the author of all these disas- 
ters. When a fellow-creature is the victim of mis^ 
m 2 


198 


fortune, he becomes sacred to me, and Frederick is 
in too dreadful a state, for the bitterness of my an- 
guish to be turned against him. But my soul is 
borne down with sadness, and 1 have no expressions 
to render what I feel. Clara was the light, the 
glory, the delight of my life ; if I lose her, all the 
ties that I have left become odious to me ; my 
children, yes, even my children, will be henceforth 
but a heavy charge; every day in embracing them, 
I shall recollect that it is they who prevent me from 
joining her ; in my deep affliction, I reject their 
caresses, and the delights which they promised me, 
and all the ties that attached me to the world ; my 
despairing heart refuses all pleasures in which Clara 
cannot participate. 

Ah ! believe me, suffer her to perform all her re- 
ligious exercises, it is not them which will weaken 
her ; impassioned souls, like hers, require aliment, 
and seek their resources either in religious or sensi- 
ble ideas ; whilst the dreadful void which love 
leaves behind it, can be filled up only by God him- 
self. 


199 


Announce me to Clara, I expect to set off in two 
or three days. Rely upon me, I shall know how 
to respect your wishes, my word, and the condition 
of my friend ; she shall be ever ignorant, that her 
husband ceased for a moment to appreciate her 
character and treated her like an ordinary woman. 


€00 


LETTER XLV. 

ELIZA TO M. D’ALBE. 

Oh ! my Cousin ! Frederick is gone, and I am 
sure it is to your house, he has fled ; I tremble lest 
this letter which I send express, should arrive too 
late, and should not prevent the dreadful evils 
which an explanation may produce. ... how shall 
I describe the scene which has just passed ? To day 
for the first time, Frederick accompanied me to a 
strange house : Absent, and mute, his attention 
was fixed on no object, he seemed not to enter into 
any thing that passed around him, and hardly an- 
swered the questions which might be addressed to 
him. Suddenly a stranger pronounced the name 
of Madame d’Albe, he said that he had just come 

from her house and that she was ill, very ill * 

Frederick cast a haggard and enquiring eye on me, 
and seeing tears in my eyes, he no longer doubted 
his misfortune. He then approached the man and 
questioned him. In vain, I called him, in vain 
I implored him to come to me, and promised I 


201 


Should tell him ail, he repulsed me with violence, 
exclaiming, no, you have deceived me, I will be- 
lieve you no more. The man who had just spo- 
ken, and had been to your house only on business, 
relative to your manufactory, confounded at the 
unexpected effect of what he had said, hesitated 
whether or not to reply to Frederick’s question. . . . 
However, alarmed at the terrible accents of this 
young man, he did not dare to resist him. I can 
only tell you, said he, that report says, Madame 
d’Albe is dying, in consequence of the infidelity of 
a young man whom she loved, and whom her hus- 
band banished from his family. At these words, 
Frederick uttered a piercing cry, overthrew every 
thing which was in his way, and darted out of the 
room ; I flew after him, I called him, I conjured 
him in the name of Clara to hear me, he refused to 
listen to me : no force could detain him, I lost 
sight of him and have not seen him yet, nor do I 
know what is become of him ; but I cannot doubt 
but that he has gone to Clara ; I tremble lest she 
should see him ; the. surprise, the emotion it must 
occasion her,, will exhaust her remaining strength. 

M 4 


202 


O my. friend ! may my letter arrive in time, to pre- 
vent such a misfortune. Insensate mad man ! ia 
his ferocious delirium, he will forget'that his sud- 
den appearance, may kill her whom he loves. Ah ! 
if possible prevent him from seeing her, drive him 
from your doors, let him no longer find in you, 
the indulgent father who seeks to justify his crime, 
but overwhelm him with your indignation, and the 
reproaches of insulted honor ; what signifies his 
fury, his imprecations, even his agony ? Remem- 
ber he is the murderer of Clara, that it is he who 
has disturbed her celestial soul, and tarnished her 
unblemished reputation, for in fact, the words of 
this man, are the faithful echo of the public voice ! 
this barbarous world, odious and unjust, has disho- 
noured my friend : without regard to what she was, 
they have rigorously judged her according to false 
appearances, nor have distinguished the tender 
though irreproachable woman, from the vile adul- 
tress. And though my Clara should acquire 
strength, to conquer her passion, could she withstand 
the loss of public esteem ? She w'ho has always re- 
spected it, who has always considered it the indispen- 


$03 


liable ornament of her sex, could she live after having 
lost it ? No, C 5 ara, die, quit a world which never 
knew how to estimate thee ; go, ask of heaven the 
reward of thy’ sufferings, and may kindred angels 
press around thee, and conduct thy wearied Spirit 
to everlasting peace. 


[Here end the lettters of Clara ; the rest is a recital 
written by the hand of Eliza ; she certainly learned 
the principal circumstances from the mouth of her 
friend, and she confided them to paper, that the young 
Laura, one day perusing them, might learn to guard 
against the passions to which her unfortunate mother 
had fallen a victim.] 


IT was late, night already began to hang her 
veil over the universe, Clara, weak and languishing, 
had herself conveyed to the bottom of the garden. 


m 5 


204 


beneath the shade of the poplars which covered her 
fathers urn, and where her piety had consecrated an 
altar to the divinity. 

Humbly prostrate on the last step, her heart still 
consumed with the image of Frederick, she implor- 
ed the clemency of heaven towards a being so dear* 
and strength to forget him. Suddenly a hurried 
step roused her from her meditations, she was sur- 
prised at being interrupted, and turning her head, 
the first object which struck her sight, was Frede- 
rick, Frederick pale, terror-struck, breathless and 
covered with dust. At this sight, she fancied she 
was dreaming, and remained motionless, as if 
dreading that a single moment should dissolve the 
vision. Frederick saw her, and stopped ; he con- 
templates this charming face, which but a little 
while ago, he had left bright in youthful bloom ; 
he finds it faded and melancholy ; it was no lon- 
ger but the shade of Clara, whilst the hand of death 
was marked in every feature ; he would speak to 
her and cannot articulate a word, the violence of 
his anguish suspends animation, Clara still im- 


moveable, with her arms stretched towards him, 
pronounces the name of Frederick : at the sound 
of this voice, he recovers life and motion, and seiz- 
ing her discolored hand : — -No, cried he, thou didst 
not believe that Frederick had ceased to love thee, 
no ; thy heart refused to credit, this horrible, this 
dreadful blasphemy. Oh ! my Clara, in quitting 
thee, in renouncing thee forever, in supporting life 
in obedience to tby commands, I believed 1 bad 
exhausted the bitter cup of misfortune ; but if thou 
hast doubted of my faith, 1 have tasted only its 

smallest portion Speak then, Clara, reassure 

me, break this mortal silence which freezes me with 
horror. . .In saying these words he pressed her ar- 
dently to his bosom. Clara gently repulsing him, 
raises herself, fixes her eyes upon him, and gazing 
at him a long time with surprise : — *G thou, said 
she, who presents to me the image of him I have 
so fondly loved, art thou the shade of that Frede- 
rick who was my divinity ! say, dost thou descend 
from thy celestial habitation, to tell me that my 
last hour approaches ? Art thou the angc.l destined 
to .guide me to eternity ? What do 1 bear, cried 


Frederick, is it thou who k no west me not ? Clara, 
is thy heart then altered like thy features, and does 
it remain insensible beside me ? They told me I 
had lost it, can friendship have deceived me? Yes, 
exclaimed he vehemently, black treachery made me 
appear faithless in thine eyes, and painted thee to. 
me, gay and tranquil ; they would have made us 
die, the victims of each other, they would have had 
us mutually plunge the dagger in each others 
hearts. Believe me, Clara, friendship, faith, honor, 
all is false in the world ; there is no truth but in 
love, there is nothing real, but this powerful and 
indestructible sentiment which binds me to thy be- 
ing, and which in this moment , governs thee as 
well as myself : combat it no longer, oh ! my 
Clara ! yield to thy lover ; participate his trans- 
ports, let us live, let us die but for each other \ 
Frederick spoke, he presses her in his arms, he 
covers her with kisses, he lavishes on her the most 
ardent caresses ; the unfortunate creature, over- 
powered by so many emotions, palpitating, oppress- 
ed, half vanquished by her heart, and her weakness, 
till resists, and repulsing him, exclaims Frede- 


207 


rick, when eternity is just open to receive me, 
wouldst thou that I should appear dishonored be- 
fore the tribunal of my God ! Frederick, it is for 
thy sake I implore thee, the responsibility of my 
crime will devolve upon thy head. . . . Well, I ac- 
cept it, cried he, in a dreadful voice, there is no 
price at which I would not purchase the possession 
of Clara ! ! ! Love doubled the strength of Frede- 
rick, love and illness had exhausted that of Clara 

She is no longer herself; Frederick is all, 

Frederick ! ...... Clara should have 

died, but Clara was guilty and punishment await- 
ed returning sense. Punishment ! how dreadful l 
what a gulph presented itself before her ; she had 
violated conjugal faith ! she had sullied the honor 
of her husband ! the noble Clara, was no longer, 
but an infamous adullress ! Years of unspotted 
virtue, were effaced by this single moment ! She 
sees it, and has no tears for her misfortune ; the 
consciousness of her crime maddens her ; she is no 
longer the soft and tender female, whose touching 
accents subdued the soul of every being of sensible - 
ty, and created one in the indifferent ; but fran« 


20 S 


tic, wild and furious, she can neither dissemble her 
perfidy to herself, nor endure the idea of it. She 
retreats from Frederick with horror, and raising her 
trembling hands towards heaven : — Eternal jus- 
tice ! cried she, if thou hast any pky left, for the 
vile creature who yet implores thee, punish the base 
artizan of my infamy ; that wandering, insulated 
on the earth, he may be ever pursued by the igno- 
miny of Clara, and the cries of his benefactor. . . . 
And thou perfidious and cruel man, contemplate 
thy victim, but listen to the last vows of her heart ; 
this heart detests, more than it ever loved thee ; thy 
approach tortures her, the sight of thee is her great- 
est punishment ; go, go hence, contaminate me 
not, with thy unworthy looks, Frederick, inflam- 
ed with love and devoured with remorse, would 
soften Clara ; prostrate at her feet, he implores, he 
conjures her, she will not hear him ; the sense of 
crime has extinguished love, and the voice of 
Frederick no longer reaches her heart. He makes a 
movement to approach her ; terrified she darts to 
the altar, and encircling it with her arms, she ex- 
claims : will thy sacrilegious hand, dare to reach 


209 


me even here ? If thy base soul has not known 
how to respect all that was most holy on earth, at 
least respect heaven, and do not impiously insult 
me, even in this last asylum. It is here, added 
she, in a prophetic transport, that this moment in 
which I see thee, is the last in which my eyes shall 
open to behold thee; if thou wilt not go from 
hence, I shall know how to find a speedy death, 
and may heaven annihilate me, the first instant, 
thou shalt dare to appear before me. 

Frederick, staggered by this horrible imprecation, 
and trembling lest the least delay should put an 
end to his Clara, moved away impetuously. But 
hardly was he out of her sight, when he stopped, 
he cannot leave the wood, without having once 
more heard her, and raising his voice, he exclaim- 
ed : Oh ! thou, whom I must never more behold ! 
thou who uuitest with heaven, in cursing the 
wretch who adored thee ! thou who in recoin pence 
of unexampled love, condemns him to eternal ex- 
ile ! thou, in short, whose hate has proscribed him 
from the whole surface of the earth. Oh ! Clara, 


210 


before immensity is between us forever, let me once 
more hear the sound of that voice, and in the name 
of the torments I endure, let it be in the accents of 
pity. . . .lie listens, he does not draw a breath, he 
stifles the horrible beatings of his heart, that he 

may listen, to the \oiceof Clara At length 

these feble and tremulous words, which hardly 
pierce the universal stillness of nature, salute his 
ear, and calm his senses ; Go, unhappy mortal, I 
forgive thee . 

Indignation had rallied Clara’s strength, tender- 
ness overcame it ; subdued by Frederick’s ascen- 
dancy, she felt that at the moment she pardoned 
him, he was still dear to her, and fell lifeless on the 
steps of the altar. 

M. d’Albe who had not received Eliza's letter, 
and who had been out for some hours, learned on 
his return, that Frederick had been seen in the 
house ; he trembled and asked for his wife ; they 
told him that she was gone according to her usual 
practice, to her father’s tomb. He bent his steps 


211 


towards it, the moon reflected a feeble light, he 
called Clara, she did not answer ; his first thought 
was that she had fled with Frederick ; the second 
more just, but yet more dreadful, that she had ceas- 
ed to exist. He hastens to the place, at length, by 
the light of the silvery rays, which dart through the 

trembling poplars, he perceives an object a 

white gown he approaches, it was Clara 

stretched upon the marble, and cold as the bed she 
pressed. At this sight he uttered a piercing cry; 
his servants heard and ran to him. Ah ! how de- 
scribe the universal consternation ! this celestial 
woman is no more, this adored mistress, this angel 
of beneficence is now only cold and mouldering 
clay ! despair took possession of every heart ; how- 
ever, a movement revives hope, they bear her to the 
house, and fly for assistance on every side. The 
whole night past in uncertainty, but the next day a 
glow of warmth returns to her almost exhausted 
frame, and she opens her eyes, at the moment that 
Eliza reaches her bed-side. 


This tender friend had immediately followed her 
letter, but the letter had not arrived : a word from 
M. d’Aibe informs her of all, she enters the room 
in dismay. Clara knows her, and holds out her 
arms to her ; Eliza throws herself into them, and 
Clara presses her to her heart, already struck with 
the chili of death. She hopes that friendship will 
revive her, and lend her strength to express her last 
wishes ; her dying eye seeks her husband ; her ex- 
piring voice calls him, she takes his hand and unit- 
ing it with that of her friend, she looks mournfully 
at them both, and says : Heaven would not permit 
me to die innocent, the wretch who you see before 
you, is covered with the last degree of opprobrium, 
my senses betrayed me, and an ungrateful creature 
profiting by my weakness, has broken the sacred 
ties which attached me to my husband. I do not 
ask indulgence, neither he nor I have the smallest 
claim to it ; these are crimes which no passion can 
excuse, and which pardon cannot reach . . * . . .She 
was silent, in listening to her the heart of Eliza clos- 
ed against hope, and she was convinced that her 
friend would not survive her shame. 


213 - 


M. d’Albe, in consternation at what he hears* 
yet does not repulse the hand which has betrayed 
him. Clara, said he, your error is certainly great, 
but you have still virtues enough left to constitute 
my felicity, and the only fault I cannot forgive 
you, is your wishing for death, which will leave 
me alone in the world. At these words, his wife 
cast an eye of gratitude and tenderness towards 
him : — Dear and respected friend, said she, believe 
that it is for you only I would wish to live, and that 
it is dying unworthy of you, which renders my last 
moments so bitter. But I feel my strength dimin- 
ishing, I entreat you both to leave me, I wish to- 
collect my scattered thoughts, before. I speak to you 
again. 

Eliza softly closed the curtain, and did not utter 
sword: she had nothing to say, nothing to ask, 
nothing to expect : the confession of her friend 
taught her that all war over, that the decree, of dea-fcLt 
was irrevocable, and that Clara was lost forever*. 


N 


214 

vy 

M. d’Albe wbo did not know her so weli, wa & 
agitated and uneasy ; more happy than Eliza, he 
fears, because he hopes ; he is astonished at her 
tranquillity, her mute consternation appears to him 
indifference, and irritates him, Eliza, without be- 
ing disturbed by his anger, rises gently, and leads 
him out of the chamber : for heavens sake, cried 
she, disturb not the solemnity of her last moments 
by vain assistance which cannot save her, and calm 
an irritation which may break the last thread of her 
existence. Tremble lest life should, be extinguish- 
ed before she can have spoken to you of her chil- 
dren : without doubt her last wishes will be conse- 
crated to them ; whatever they may be, should 
they even be to survive her, I swear to fulfil 
them. As for her terrestrial existence, it is over ; 
from the moment that Clara was guilty, she neces- 
sarily renounced life ; I love her too much to wish 
her to survive, and I know her too well to hope it. 
The positive and imposing air with which, Eliza 
pronounced these words, was a thunder-bolt to M. 
d’Albe, he learned that his wife was no more. . . • 

Eliza approached the bed of her friend : motionless 

j ' 

/ 


215 


and silent, she seemed to await her last breath, to 
exhale her own. 

After some hours, Clara held out her hand, and 
taking that of Eliza ; I feel said she that I am ex- 
piring, I must hasten to speak ; send every one 
out of the room, and let you and M. d’Aibe alone, 
remain with me. Eliza made a sign, every one 
retired ; the miserable husband advanced, without 
having courage to cast his eyes upon her he was 
about to lose ; he internally reproached himself 
with having been the cause of her death, in deceiv- 
ing her ; Clara divined his repentance, and believ- 
ed that her friend partook of it ; she hastened to 
reassure them.- — —Reproach not yourselves, said 
she, with having dissembled the truth to me ; your 
motive was good, and this method only, could 
have succeeded ; doubtless, it would have cured 
me, if the dreadful fatality which pursues me, had 
not frustrated all your projects. Eliza did not re- 
ply ; she knew that Clara only said this, to calm 
their agitated consciences, and she would not dis- 
claim a fault, which would devolve solely on M. 


‘ 21 6 

<FAlbe ; but he accused himself, he rendered IZitzsi 
the justice which was due to her/ in telling Clara, 
that she had only yielded to his. wishes. She was re- 
warded for her integrity ; a slight pressure of the 
hand, which M. d’Albedid not perceive, recompen- 
ced her without punishing him. Clara continued 
. . . . O my friend ! said she, looking tenderly at her 
husband, I alone am guilty; you, tyho sought 
only my happiness, and whom I have so ungrate, - 
fully recompensed ; is it for you to repent ? M. 
d’Albe took his wife’s hand, and covered it with 
his tears ; weep not, said she, my friend, it is not 
now that you lose me ; but when by a shameful 
weakness I authorised Frederick’s love ; when mis- 
led by specious reasoning, I wanted confidence in 
you, for the first time in my life, it was then I ceas- 
ed to be myself, I ceased to live for you ; from the 
moment which I stepped aside from my principles, 
the sacred chain which united us was broken ; seduc- 
tion insinuated itself into my soul, fascinated my 
eyes, and took possession of my senses; instead of 
tearing myself from the allurement which misled 
I excused it, and -from that moment, my fall was 


Inevitable. O thou ! my Eliza, continues she, 
with a more elevated accent, thou who art about to 
become the mother of my children, I do not speak 
to thee of my son ; he will have the example of his 
father : but watch over my Laura ; let her inter- 
est prevail over thy friendship. If any virtues have 
-shed lustre on my life, tell her that my guilt effaced 
them all ; .in speaking to her of the crime that caus- 
ed my death, beware of palliating or excusing it, 
for then you will interest her in my weakness ; 
k-t her know that I was lost, by lending to vice, 
the coloring of virtue ; tell her that when we suf- 
fer ourselves to make innocence the veil of its 
most hideous enemy, we are deceived, betrayed, 
and fall into the snares of vice, when we believe 
that it is virtue only, we cherish .... in short, Eli— 
.za, added she. (whilst expiring life j ust hovered on 
her lips) say often to my Laura, that if a severe 
and courageous hand, had rent aside the charm 
with which I encircled my passion, if it bad been 
.plainly shewn me, that she who compromises with 
1 onor is already lost, and that nothing noble 
ever resulted, from a vicious cause, *thea with- 


£18 


out doubt, I should have spurned the senti- 
ment, which now destroys me Here Cla- 

ra was compelled to interrupt herself, in vain 
she sought to finish the sentence, her ideas be- 
came disordered, and her icy lips could only repeat 

a few broken words after some minutes she 

asked her husband’s blessing ; on receiving it, a 
Hash of joy beamed in her languid eye. . . .now, I 
die in peace said she, I may appear before my Mak- 
er. .. ,1 have offended you more than him, he will 
not be less merciful. Then casting a last look on 
her friend and pressing her hand, she pronounced 
the name of Frederick, sighed, and died. Some 
tlays after, M. d’Albe received this note written by 
-Eliza and dictated by Clara. 

CLARA TO M. d’aLBE. 

1 will not call a blush, into the venerable cheek 
of my husband, by pronouncing before him the 
name of one, whom perhaps, he detests ; but can he 
forget that this unfortunate being would have fled 
this asylum, and that my commands alone retained 


him ; that in our mutual situation, his duties be- 
ing less, so also was his fault less than mine, and 
that my love was a crime, whilst his was but a 
weakness. He is now wandering on the earthy he bas- 
your misfortunes to reproach himself with, he will 
believe he is the cause of my death, and his heart 
was formed for the love of virtue. Oh ! my 
friend, my inestimable friend ! does pity whisper 
you nothing in his behalf, and will he not obtain 
that mercy which you have not refused me £ 

To comply with the last wishes of his wife, M. 
d’Albe sought for Frederick all around the neigh- 
borhood, and had the most exact enquiries made, 
in the place of his birth ; all were useless ; and his 
researches entirely unsuccessful ; no one ever dis- 
covered where he had dragged out his miserable 
existence, nor when he had terminated it. No 
human being ever knew what had become of him ; 
it was only said that at Clara’s funeral, a stranger 
wrapped up in a thick great-ccat, with a large hat 
over his face, had silently followed the procession,, 
and that at the moment the coffin was laid in the 


C20 


Wraith , be shuddered and fell- to the ground, and 
that as soon as the grave was filled up, he started off 
impetuously ; exclaiming At present I am free*, 
thou shall not be there long alone* 



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